Services Rendered
by UnstableIntention
Summary: Peter's ace and Stiles is disillusioned, but neither can afford to move through the world that way, so for now a little cash and a little non-disclosure will have to do.
1. Chapter 1

"So… we need to talk."

"Oh for god's sake," Peter huffed, flopping back onto the mattress and dropping a sweaty forearm over his eyes. "Is this an intervention, or are you breaking up with me?"

"Um neither? Both? I just…"

"Spit it out!" he snapped, sudden irritation flaring in his gut as he rolled off the bed and stalked over to the dresser, careful to keep his back to the young man tangled in his sheets. He knew what was coming and to his great surprise he found that it had settled into the pit of his belly like a block of cool, heavy lead. Scowling as he jerked on a pair of shorts, he considered the feeling for all of a second before he labeled it inconsequential and forced it away. Losing Greenburg would be a significant inconvenience, but he was hardly emotionally attached to the youth - as such any reaction beyond mild irritation felt like too much of a reaction for his taste.

"It's just… I mean, I'm moving. Back to California. I paid off my loans and you wrote me that great reference…"

"When you said you were looking for work I didn't realize you were planning to flee to the other side of the country," Peter muttered scathingly, thrusting his arms into a V-neck shirt and tugging it down over his head.

"I wasn't but…"

Finally turning around, Peter found the chubby, dark-haired young man struggling to pull his skinny jeans up his thighs - a wobbly, faux-hipster mess in a coffee-stained jacket with a crooked haircut. He looked up in time to catch the older man staring, ducked his head sheepishly as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"My, um…" he stammered, blushing painfully. "My old coach. He uh, he messaged me on Facebook. Offered me a position…"

"Your old coach, the one you're in love with?" Peter asked waspishly, half from bitter, annoyance-born cruelty and half from a strange sort of honest hope for the pathetically lovelorn boy. It was an unsettling combination, but over the two years he'd known Greenburg he'd come to… well not _care_ for him.

 _Appreciate_ was perhaps a better term.

"Yeah," Greenburg mumbled, kicking at Peter's hardwood floors with his scuffed trainers. "I just thought… I mean, they need somebody with a PT background, and…"

"Of course," he said gruffly, reaching for the wallet lying on top of his dresser. "Sounds like a good opportunity." Pulling out four crisp five-hundred-dollar bills, he offered them to the young man with a casual, practiced hand. "I suppose this is goodbye then."

"I didn't…" Greenburg balked, eyeing the money warily, and Peter heaved a sigh, leveling an exasperated glare in his direction.

The young man had always been awkward about accepting his payment, smelling like an odd mixture of shame and relief and reluctance. Peter had never found it charming in all their acquaintance and this time was no different - he was a man of few principles but conviction was one of them, and he found a lack of it distasteful.

"That's more than you owe me," Greenburg mumbled, taking a step towards him despite his words.

"Call it a farewell tip," Peter replied flatly, rolling his eyes.

Closing the distance between them sheepishly, he reached out and accepted the money, rolling the bills in his hand before tucking them carefully into his pocket. He followed behind Peter silently as he led the way through his apartment to the front door, a familiar ritual the same as any other time that he'd frequented the high-rise, but the mood was strangely and incredibly somber, weighing on the both of them far more than it should. These were not lovers falling apart; what they had was a business arrangement built on cash, convenience, and an airtight non-disclosure agreement.

Wrenching the door open roughly, Peter stood to the side, waiting for the other man to move past and go, but instead he paused halfway across the threshold, turning back with a look of quiet contemplation on his face, a look that fit him ill.

"If it wasn't him…" he began on a breath, but Peter shook his head.

He'd heard a lot of things about the fabled 'Coach' during all the quiet, in-between moments he and Greenburg had spent in shared company, many more than he had cared to in fact. The young man had a terrible penchant for pillow talk that Peter had never found a way to circumvent, a failure that he often felt quite keenly. It didn't take a genius to see how hung up the young man was on his old instructor, and Peter had enough first-hand information to fill a book.

Still, unfortunate affinity for food-based pet names and innumerable eccentricities aside, Peter couldn't begrudge the boy happiness with the other man. If he could secure it then he was certainly entitled to it, all age differences and obnoxious personalities aside.

Peter was hardly one to judge a relationship on that basis or any other.

He only thanked God that the two would be unable to procreate.

"Get out," he scowled without too much malice, jerking his chin towards the hallway. "Go back to California. Put that _massage_ degree you worked so hard for to good use."

A quiet moment passed between them before Greenburg spoke.

"You made it easy Peter," he said softly. "I think I'll miss you."

Standing up on his tiptoes, he pressed a quick, light kiss to Peter's cheek, making him sneer and lean away from the contact.

"I thought I told you to get out."

Smiling like Peter had just declared his love instead of gruffly forcing him out of his life with one last bitter push, Greenburg ducked through the door and headed off down the hallway towards the elevator, tossing him a silly little wave before Peter shut the door on him, scrubbing roughly at his cheek with the back of his wrist.

Stupid kid.

Peter wouldn't miss him.

Oh, he would miss the easiness of his company after all this time, the security of their arrangement. The _services_ that the boy provided.

Oh yes, Peter would miss those.

But the boy himself?

Neither Peter nor his wolf much cared.

Wandering into the kitchen on bare feet, he poked around the refrigerator for something red and raw. It was going on two evenings past the full moon but he still felt a little twitchy, too large for his skin, and he knew a part of it was being alone again. The rest though, the rest came from locking himself indoors when he would rather be out running, careening through the forest with the silver light pouring down slick and cool on his shoulders. But such was almost never possible and so he had to find other ways to deal. Greenburg's company got him through the worst of the deprivation, but it was always like this after, always that feeling of being hollow and hungry with a strong, near-uncontrollable urge to sink his teeth into something that would squeal and squirm beneath him as blood burst hot and coppery on his tongue.

But Peter was no longer a pup wet behind the ears, driven to ecstatic madness by the beauty of swollen moon. Instead he was a beta in his prime; strong, powerful, his control iron-clad, and he had found his own ways with which to leash his more animalistic instincts.

Though that wasn't to say that he preferred them.

Withdrawing from the refrigerator, Peter sliced through the cellophane packaging of a nicely marbled steak with a single claw, taking down a plate and cutlery from a cabinet. He might be eating the thing while it still bled but that was hardly any reason to be uncivil about the process. It was a display of control more than anything, cutting delicate slices of meat expensive enough to melt on his tongue when he would much rather grow his fangs and tear at it, but such tended the bent of his life in all things.

Control.

Concealment.

As necessary as it was exhausting.

He'd learned the hard way that exposing a preference to or character trait for anything that could be considered weakness made one vulnerable to all sorts of… inconveniences.

But Peter was one to learn from his mistakes, and to go after what he wanted with a voracity that matched the wolf's, regardless, or perhaps in spite of any limitations standing in his way.

Savoring the last salty bite of his steak, sucking the juice from his thumb, Peter dropped his dishes into the sink and headed deeper into the apartment, searching around until he found his running shoes stuffed under the edge of a table. Lacing the sneakers tightly, he pocketed his keys and plugged his iPod into his ears, selecting a dark, visceral playlist with a hard, pounding beat. His metabolism had already gone to work on his meal and a quick jog around the lightly wooded park nearby would help him to shake the last vestiges of discomfort clinging to his limbs from the pain of a confined moon.

 **XXX**

A full two hours later Peter dragged his feet back into his apartment, sweaty and exhausted after pushing himself to the furthest limits of what a human male in his physical prime could achieve. It would have been a pleasure to go beyond that, to tap into his animalistic side and move with the speed of his werewolf blood, but in the publicity of the park that hadn't been possible. Indeed, such was a pleasure he rarely allowed himself, only on those few occasions when he flew back to Colorado to visit his sister's pack or when he made the drive out to the head of the Appalachians for a long weekend. Far more often he found himself trapped in the city - a city he loved, don't get him wrong, a city that he had made his kingdom - but on those few days, those few nights every month, he _did_ feel trapped, caught between the glass and concrete of the skyscrapers and brick and steel of the back alleys.

Still, if he went long enough he could tire himself out.

Looking at his couch with longing, Peter toed off his sneakers and forced himself into the shower, scrubbing down quickly under cool water. Leaving his hair damp, he pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and moved into the kitchen to turn up the air conditioning. It was mid-July, well into the sweat of summer, and the leftover heat of the full moon made him want for an ice-water bath. Settling for a glass of the stuff instead, he carried it into the living room and settled into a lazy sprawl at last, sunk low in the cushions with his feet propped up on the ottoman, taking a moment just to breathe in the quiet silence.

It was always pleasant having his apartment to himself again.

He enjoyed Greenburg's company for what it was, needed it even, but getting rid of him as the moon began to wane was a joy in itself. He would take tomorrow off, one last day to get himself together before he returned to the office, and then things would be back to normal.

At least until next month.

Frowning, Peter reached for the remote, tuned his flatscreen in to his Netflix account and put a cowboy flick on in the background while his laptop booted up. Losing Greenburg, his long-term go-to, meant that he only had until the next full moon to find a replacement, and Peter's wolf didn't take well to change. The sooner he found a new boy the better - that way he'd have time to get to know him, acclimate to him before the real test, the three to four days of spine-tingling, logic-numbing wolf-out that came with being a loner, bound to his apartment and packless.

He'd found Greenburg through a local escort service that was well-reviewed and had a sparkling reputation, not a whiff of scandal, and being a lawyer himself as well as a less-than-scrupulous exploiter of the law, Peter had done a thorough search of their history and current clientele. Their website was neat and easily navigated, straightforward which he appreciated, and he was pleased to see that it hadn't changed in the two years since he'd signed his long-standing agreement with the ridiculous young massage student who'd so rudely resigned without so much as two weeks' notice.

Though this was hardly the type of business arrangement engaged in by Hale & Dorr; he could hardly expect to see the same etiquette from the young man as that which he demanded of his regular employees.

Tapping his fingers on his thighs in contemplation, he sighed with a vague sort of irritation before going back to the keyboard and starting his search through the available escorts, both male and female alike. There were far more important things to consider in this than plumbing, but unfortunately for him, those things weren't often part of a posted profile.

The way someone smelled, the way they moved, the way they _felt_.

It mattered, to him and his wolf.

The way they shifted when he did, when and how they met his gaze or avoided it.

It was difficult finding a human who fit that description - they were highly unlikely to be aware of the supernatural world around them and Peter wasn't inclined to divulge what he was on a whim. As such it took a particular sort of personality to satisfy the urges he was looking to quell, or indulge in as the case might be.

Hardly something easily done through an electronic interface.

Rumbling with annoyance, Peter scrubbed his hands over his face before slapping his laptop shut and reaching for his phone, dialing from memory and leaving a brief message on the owner of _Urbane Escorts_ ' personal extension. Paying as well and as regularly as he did led to certain perks, including having access to the CEO on a secure line. The man knew what Peter was - people in his sort of position often did - and with any luck he would be able to make a few recommendations that would leave to an interview or three.

Stretching out full-length on the couch, Peter dialed for take-away and went back to the shoot-out on screen.


	2. Chapter 2

It was going on eleven the next day before Peter's phone started to chirp at him from the coffee table. In all that time he hadn't moved far from his couch, choosing instead to crash there overnight, and midmorning found him lounging lazily against the cushions, stuffing himself with leftover Chinese food in front of another shoot 'em up. Pausing with his chopsticks in mid-air, his mouth full of cold Lo Mein, he contemplated letting it go to voicemail, but decided to get the conversation out of the way as soon as possible.

"Peter Hale," he said with a carefully flat disinterest, slipping into the persona he used when dealing with anyone from the escort service - all business.

"Mr. Hale," an oily voice purred from the other end of the line, and Peter suppressed his gag reflex. "So good to hear from you."

Johnathan Smith, the CEO of _Urbane Escorts_ , was a conniving son of a bitch if Peter had ever met one, and where he might appreciate that in other people, the man wore it with a greasy, slicked-back, car salesman air that didn't sit well with his inner animal. But the man occasionally made himself useful so he was tolerated.

And currently yammering away in his ear, so Peter tuned back in to the noise.

"… certainly hope you're not dissatisfied with the services you've been provided?"

"Not at all," Peter replied, putting on his amicable-lawyer-voice even as he rolled his eyes. Assuming correctly that the man was talking about Greenburg's rather abrupt departure, he wondered if Smith honestly thought that he would've stayed silent if he were unhappy with the situation. "They've been more than satisfactory," he continued, going so far as to elaborate. "It will certainly be difficult to see the young man go."

"Of course," Smith hummed, his sympathy so fake that Peter didn't need to monitor his heartbeat through the phone to hear the lie. "Many of our clients form emotional attachments when they spend regular time with our escorts."

This time it was a snort that Peter choked down.

"But I'm sure that isn't why you've called."

"No," Peter responded, louder and more firmly, ready to get down to the business at hand.

"Given the nature of your past… arrangements, may I go so far as to presume that you're interested in looking for a new partner?"

And wasn't _partner_ a strong word.

He was hiring an escort, not a boyfriend.

"I've browsed your site," Peter said off-handedly, sitting up and leaning forward to push aside a stack of case files and make room for his carton of noodles on the coffee table. "No one stood out."

"I see. If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion?"

Idiot - that was why he'd called.

"Mr. Greenburg actually left a recommendation on my desk along with his resignation. It seems you made quite an impression on the young man - he wanted to make sure you were left in… good hands."

Peter grimaced at the thinly veiled innuendo but it was also silent reassurance that Greenburg had stuck to his contract and kept his mouth shut about their relationship, even with his boss, so he let it slide.

"Now I must warn you, this young man is… rather new."

Snapped out of his irritation rather abruptly, Peter's attention narrowed back in on the conversation.

"Quite inexperienced, you understand," Smith continued, "But there haven't been any complaints against him so far. In fact he's been rather well received; I've had more than a few applications for his time, though unfortunately he's turned out to be a bit… choosy for us here at Urbane."

"How unfortunate for you," Peter muttered, more to himself than the man on the other end of the phone.

He really didn't care about any inconveniences the man suffered under, as long as they didn't affect him.

Interesting though. Inexperienced, which likely meant unjaded and quite possibly a bit vulnerable, perhaps even a little innocent, all things which appealed to Peter's baser nature. And choosy, which in the best of scenarios meant discerning. And while Greenburg certainly wasn't the brightest crayon in the box he'd gotten to know Peter quite well over the last two years, so his recommendation boded well for the young man.

"If you'd be interested in meeting him, I would be happy to set up an interview."

"I'll give him a try," Peter said smartly, just to satisfy the man enough that he would be reminded of Peter's value as a client, and he was rewarded with a greasy chuckle. Grabbing a pen from the mess on the coffee table, he scribbled himself a quick note. "Saturday, four pm. I'm assuming there won't be any problem meeting him in a public setting?"

"None at all," Smith answered smoothly, well aware that Peter had no intentions of stepping foot in his building. He was careful to keep a minimum two mile radius between himself and _Urbane's_ offices at all times and wouldn't be changing that in the near future. "Have you a venue in mind?"

"Quick Brew on 8th Avenue," he said, noting down the name of the tea shop without hesitation. The tea shop and its proprietor were familiar to him and well within his territory - he felt comfortable there and he supposed it was as good a place as any to meet an escort.

"Very good. If there's nothing else I can do for you?"

"Nothing."

"Excellent - then I shall be waiting to hear your decision. Your young man will be wearing red, Mr. Hale."

' _Not mine_ ,' Peter thought with a low growl as the line went dead.

Hell, he'd been schlepping around with Greenburg for years and felt no claim to the kid.

But it was enough to know that he had something in the works, someone lined up. It soothed the edges of his nerves, still raw from the recent moon, calmed his wolf, which was more unsettled by the loss of a long term chew toy than he'd expected it to be. He supposed that Greenburg had become property in a way, territory that his more animalistic instincts were reluctant to give up. After two years it made sense - Peter just needed to find himself a new bone to worry.

Hopefully the one he'd be vetting in three days' time would make the grade.

 **XXX**

Those three days passed quickly and cleanly, the hair-raising itch of the full moon fading from beneath his skin until he was well settled back into the full swing of his life, three days spent at the office from six in the morning until ten at night, calling on contracts and catching up on paperwork. He spent Friday evening boozing and schmoozing a potential client and three of her company's top executives - two of whom she appeared to be sleeping with. He wasn't judging, but he certainly wasn't above using the information to his advantage either.

He was lucky he couldn't get drunk on the mid-shelf Scotch she'd ordered - after spending four and a half hours flirting and plying her with his most charming smiles, he ended the evening irritable and exhausted. He could still feel her hands on his forearm, the small of his back where she'd dipped lower than was strictly professional for a parting hug. She'd even gone so far as to give him her card - one that they both knew he already had - her personal number scrawled in felt-tip pen across the back. He was confident that he'd secured the account but that had only gone so far in bolstering his spirits; the mild molestation and the hungry, calculating look in her eyes had put a bad taste in his mouth, so much so that he ended up snapping at his driver Roy, one of the few humans he tolerated with equanimity.

Against his nature he'd apologized, something he rarely did, but he knew when he was in the wrong and his nasty attitude hadn't been warranted. Subsequently he'd ended up having the man stop at a drug store halfway between the restaurant and Peter's high rise, bought him a bag of the pork rinds he loved and that Peter hated because they made the interior of the Mercedes reek like death. He'd consoled himself by diving into a pint of cheap peanut butter and banana ice cream, the back window rolled down to let in a cool, damp breeze, and by the time Roy parked alongside the curb in front of his building he was feeling that much better.

Bidding the man a better night, he'd stuffed his plastic spoon into his mouth, grabbed his briefcase, and took his private elevator up to the top floor and let himself into his apartment. He'd aired it out since Greenburg had been there, washed his sheets and chucked the socks the kid had left under his couch. His scent had faded entirely in that time, the apartment clean and untainted, just as he liked it. It was a weight off his shoulders to step inside, into his den, the heart of his territory, away from the world and the humans in it who had no idea what it was they were rubbing elbows with, what it was they were forcing unnecessary contact on.

Safe inside the walls of his apartment, Peter let his eyes flare as he shrugged off his jacket, moved into the bedroom to hang it. Briefcase on the table, shoes on the rack, wallet and keys in the bowl… it was a soothing ritual even if neatness wasn't one of his strongest tendencies. It didn't matter anyway - certain suits weren't meant for the floor, not Hugo Boss, not Brooks Brothers, not his.

Which was half the reason that, given his druthers, Peter preferred his birthday suit.

Stripping down, he wandered naked toward the kitchen, appetite roused by his ice cream treat instead of finished off. The restaurant had been one of those places that apparently felt itself above real food, serving spoonfuls of amuse bouche and tasting menus instead. And while Peter certainly enjoyed the finer things, he'd take a greasy barstool burger over a caprese-flavored granita any day.

Only half interested in actually eating anything else so late, he decided on coffee instead and dropped a cup into his single-brew percolator, taking down the creamer from the cabinet.

Coffee…

Peter paused with his hand on the buttons, surprised that he'd almost forgotten the meeting he'd set for the next day. He wasn't anxious about it, not in the way he probably should be, probably _would b_ e if he were anyone else - but there _were_ certain things riding on that meeting. Finishing the motions, he contemplated his feelings on the subject while he waited for his coffee mug to fill, took the steaming cup in his hands and breathed the steam. It was mild irritation, he was sure, nothing more. He was only put out by having to go through these motions in the first place. He'd never really had long-term plans for his relationship, if it could be called that, but he'd hoped Greenburg might last a little longer than he had. Now he had to go out and make nice, self himself the way he had earlier tonight with his client, and while he was certainly good at it, often enjoyed the challenge of a tough-sell, he couldn't help but abhor the necessity of all this in the first place.

He didn't regret what he was, who he was. Didn't regret his preferences, didn't hate himself for them - he was entitled to live and love exactly as he damn well pleased. No, it was the world that he regretted, the world and the majority of the people in it.

There were few he wouldn't do away with if he could.

But Peter had learned his lesson young, and he was willing to make certain sacrifices to get what he wanted. This was merely one of those. And hell, it wasn't all so bad; after all, he's come to enjoy Greenburg's company after some time - not to the degree that it ever would have been anything more than what it was, but Peter had never been the type for sugar and roses, or making lifelong commitments to anything that would last longer than your average house plant.

Placing his coffee mug in the sink, he began drifting back toward the bedroom, intent on a pair of sweats and a good night's sleep, but the blinking light on the answering machine just inside the door of his office caught his attention as he passed. Stepping inside the edge of the small space, he reached out and tapped the button, wondering why he even bothered routing his personal and business calls through so many different channels. The voicemail on his iPhone was so much more convenient, and what with Google Voice now…

"Mr. Hale, this is Johnathan Smith calling."

Oh, yes, that was why.

"Just a quick confirmation of your meeting tomorrow at 4pm on 8th at the venue you requested. Everything is in order and your client, a Mr. Stiles Stilinski, will be awaiting your arrival. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact me at any time. You have my number."

Peter felt a shudder roll up his spine as the phone clicked, the recording going dead. It wasn't the message itself - no, there had been nothing untoward or incriminating hinted at there - it was that insipid CEO that he couldn't stand.

God, wouldn't he like to wrap his hands around that man's throat and throttle him one of these days. Not to _kill_ him per se, just to put the fear of god into his beady little eyes…

Huffing, rolling his eyes, Peter shook off the disgust he felt for the man, erased the message and found his bed, collapsing face first into the pillows with a sigh.

 _Stiles Stilinski_.

Interesting.

He knew most escort types used fake names, but he could think of at least five off the top of his head that he would've chosen for himself before he chose something so basely repetitive, something that rolled so smoothly off his tongue before stumbling.

Snorting, amused at the thought of his ever needing an escort name of his own and intrigued by the prospects of tomorrow, Peter drifted into a deep and undisturbed slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

He slept late the next day.

Being a partner at Hale & Dorr meant taking on a lot more than forty hours a week, and being _good_ meant that he and Vivian ( _Dorr, darling, Vivian Dorr_ ) were well sought after and never short of clients. Being good also meant that those clients were all high-profile clients, so they could afford to be choosy about how many they took on. Together the two of them accepted exactly as many cases as they chose, shuffled smaller jobs off on the six associates they employed, and laughed in the face of anyone who thought they could pressure the other into taking a case. They'd each paid their dues with pro bono work and schlepping files for more experienced attorneys, fought their way up the food chain - they'd earned their spot on the wall with blood, sweat, and tears, which meant they could sleep in on a Saturday if they damned well pleased.

Smirking into his pillow as he sprawled out on his belly, the late morning sun warm on his bare shoulders where it streamed in through the large, glass wall that led to the balcony, Peter let his mind wander through pleasant memories of the vacation they'd taken together two years ago, when they'd realized they both had a coinciding lull in their workload and decided to shut the office down all together for two weeks. They'd subsequently gone MIA, flying down to Fiji to spend their time on the beach getting hammered and flirting with the locals until real life beckoned once again in the form of angry phone calls and one particularly acidic email sent by Peter's sister Talia.

Oh yes, he missed Fiji.

Perhaps he would go again this year.

Perhaps this time he would take Stiles.

Stiles…

Rolling over, Peter stretched and hummed, felt his fangs prickle at his gums as he rolled the name around in his mouth. It still tasted strange, the vowels making him stumble, but he supposed he could always get the boy to change it for him.

He was paying for the privilege after all.

Climbing out of bed, Peter rolled his shoulders, popped the discs in his spine before pulling on a pair of sweatpants he found on the floor beneath the edge of the bed. Sweats weren't suits, occasionally they didn't make it to the hamper.

Deciding on coffee, he made his way to the kitchen, brewed a quick mug and added creamer before strolling back to his bed room, opening the glass doors and stepping out onto the balcony. For a while he leaned against the railing, sipping his coffee and enjoying his high-rise view, the fresh spring air. Up this high, he often felt like he was living on a pinnacle - of his world and everyone else's, untouched by the scent of trash and smog, the bustling sounds of the city, away from the masses…

Perfect.

A shower and shave later and Peter was actually feeling pretty good, the irritations of the night before long gone.

Wandering through the house in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, left with a few hours to kill, he made himself a grilled cheese sandwich and ate standing at the counter, his craving for raw meat having subsided again after the moon. Good, since he didn't want to be distracted by his baser instincts, didn't want to be thinking about taking a bite from the young Stiles Stilinski when he should be paying attention to other things. There would be plenty of time for that later, if things worked out. Peter had a tendency to nibble when his blood was up, when the moon began to grow fat and heavy overhead.

But today there were other things to be sorted.

Moving from the kitchen to the office, Peter scoffed at himself, the way he seemed to be pacing through the apartment as he shifted from room to room. Planting his ass firmly in his high-backed, leather captain's chair, he powered up his desktop and opened a few encrypted documents, settling in for a good forty-five minutes' work. It was soothing in a way, to see it all there in black and white, laid out in carefully crafted lawyer-speak. The rules and requirements, codes and caveats. His safety net.

Net.

Hah!

He'd built himself a damned Alcatraz - nothing was getting out… or getting off.

Snorting at the terrible pun, Peter printed out the contract and tapped the thick stack of papers smartly against the edge of the desk, smugly satisfied with his own work. As he slipped them into a large manila envelope he wondered if he might be jinxing himself before dismissing the idea as ridiculous.

Besides, what was the point of planning for the worst if you weren't prepared for the best?

Sealing the envelope, he dropped it onto the runner table in the hallway before deciding he might as well dress. Teeth brushed, goatee trimmed, the barest hint of cologne from the expensive bottle Vivian had bought him for Christmas and the only type he'd ever been able to stand. He went back and forth on what he should wear, trying to remember what he'd worn to meet Greenburg, but somehow that meeting hadn't meant as much and he couldn't recall.

Business-wear was out. He wasn't wasting a good suit on this kid just yet. So was ultra-casual. Arriving in his favorite pair of worn-out jeans and black zip-up would hardly inspire confidence that he could afford the type of arrangement he would be asking for.

Something halfway between then.

He had a pair of dress jeans, black and well-fit that went nicely with his leather boots, and there was a shirt of royal blue that he'd been told brought out his eyes. Rolling the sleeves up to his elbows, he slipped into a black vest he filched from one of his suits, leaving the top two buttons of the shirt open over his throat. Watch, wallet, a flat silver band on his middle finger.

Rich but not ostentatious, powerful but approachable.

Not too damn bad.

Grabbing his envelope and his car keys, Peter took one last look around his apartment, even though he had no intention of bringing anyone home with him today. It would just be coffee, maybe a bite to eat if things went well, but no more than that.

Not before certain things were explained, completed.

And nothing would be if he didn't get going.

Locking up, Peter put on a grin and headed for the elevator.

 **XXX**

Living in New York meant that a coffee shop was never outside of anyone's walking distance, and on any given corner you were likely to find more than one Starbucks. Peter preferred the small mom and pop type places, organic when he didn't have to sell a kidney to afford a cup… not that he'd have to but it was the principle of the thing. He'd found Quick Brew just months after moving in to his top floor apartment - the little tea shop was clean and pleasantly calm despite its popularity, and only a few blocks from his office which meant he easily worked it into his morning commute.

Today it was a bit busier than usual, a large group of college types monopolizing the tables and making a little too much noise for Peter's tastes, but Talinda, the young wiccan who owned and ran the place with her husband Lucius, caught his eye as he came in and worked her magic, hustling most of them out with smiles and cookies from the basket of samples she was balancing on her hip. Whether it was literal magic or just good business acumen Peter didn't really care - it got him a seat at a clean, comfortable table for two against one of the windows in the little alcove near the back between the bookcases, stuffed with hardcover short stories and battered volumes of poetry. Touching his shoulder in greeting, Talinda took his drink order, told him it was good to see him, and then went hustling away again, disappearing behind the counter for more baked goods.

In the time it took for her to return with a wide ceramic mug of milky cinnamon chai Peter had settled a bit. He wasn't nervous, couldn't even say that excitement was what put a little zip in his bloodstream, but meeting someone, like this, _for_ this… well it was a bit like a hunt wasn't it? The first scenting of viable prey, the slow stalk to bring it into sight. And then the low, heavy stillness, like thick syrup in his system as he crouched, waited for just the right moment to spring…

The bell over the door chimed, startling Peter out of his rather animalistic day dream, his fingertips tingling and a familiar warmth building behind his eyes that suggested he needed to get a grip on himself before he drew attention the fact that he wasn't quite human. Talinda wouldn't forgive him for that, and Peter liked his body just the way it was, distinctly non-froglike thank you very much.

A young man had been the one to break him out of his distracted state, alone and clearly looking for someone as his gaze swept quickly round the shop. Peter took the moment to look him over unobserved, weighed the chances that this was Stiles.

He'd expected blood red, ruby or scarlet, something flashy and too bright. This boy wore dark skinny jeans tucked into classic Chucks and a hoodie of a muted, understated color, more maroon than red. It suited him, suited his pale skin and thick, chestnut colored hair. Peter was quietly contemplating the breadth of his shoulders, the sturdiness that belied his slender frame when large, inquisitive eyes turned on him, the color of honeyed-whiskey burning bright with question. Something in his own gaze must have given him away, the intensity with which he stared, because a small shiver seemed to roll over the boy and he swallowed, his throat bobbing delightfully as a bit of pink rose across his cheekbones.

Curious as to how he might react, filled with the sudden, perverse desire to learn if he could make the boy spook and run, Peter gave no sign to indicate who he was, no gesture of welcome, but the young man merely steeled himself, pulled back his shoulders and strode over to Peter's table with an air of someone working hard to mask hesitation.

"Peter Hale?" he asked as he approached, his voice steady though Peter's advanced hearing easily caught the rapid beat of his heart, despite the noise in the little shop.

"You must be Stiles," he purred.

Much to his surprise, the boy paled a bit, something he wouldn't have thought possible with his complexion, but there it was, a nervous reaction emphasized by the way he swallowed again, hard, and shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans. Something else Peter wouldn't have thought possible, given how tight they were. Of course, given the supposed nature of this meeting, that wasn't exactly surprising. And yet when his gaze flicked down to track the anxious movement the boy immediately pulled his hands back out, frowning and lowering himself quickly into the chair opposite Peter hiding his hands, and his hips, beneath the table.

The voice of Johnathan Smith's voice echoed in Peter's ears, a thoroughly unpleasant experience, the word _inexperienced_ whispering along the back of his neck, and he suddenly wondered just how far the application of that word could go as he sat back in his chair and looked over the young man who had slouched sullenly in front of him. Arching an eyebrow, his expression must have reminded him where he was, who he was with, because he abruptly sat up straighter in his seat, his expression smoothing out before he offered Peter a charming smile.

"It's good to meet you Mr. Hale," he grinned smoothly, bringing his hands out from under the table and lacing his fingers smoothly. His sleeves were pulled up just below his elbows, showing off corded forearms that suggested he was older than he first appeared, but Peter wasn't so distracted as to have missed the steadiness in the statement.

Good to meet you, not nice to meet you.

Clever really.

Less impressive given that he didn't realize Peter was a natural lie detector, but the point stood.

"The pleasure is all mine," Peter replied smoothly, and Stiles opened his mouth to reply but before he could Talinda was back, taking his order for a sugary, caffeine-filled concoction more candy than drink. She took his name too before dancing away again, giving Peter a smile and a salacious wink behind the boy's back.

"That's an interesting name, Stiles," Peter chanced with little inflection, not willing to test him so soon with insults.

Instead he grinned, sat back in his chair more easily than he had been.

"Yeah, well, it's a lot easier to spell than my real one," he shrugged. "When I was still fighting it in the fifth grade I figured it was time to find one with decidedly less consonants."

That startled a bit of a chuckle out of Peter, who snorted inelegantly into his tea. Stiles was his _actual_ name? Putting the cup down, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, caught the young man smirking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Oh, he liked that.

It spoke to sass, a bit of snark, and he was suddenly struck by the strong desire to determine whether or not Stiles would be able to keep up with him on that front. Greenburg had never been one for intellectual debate, something which Peter dearly loved, and the prospect of finding himself a companion who could at least meet him on his level was enticing.

Watching him intently, he was oddly pleased to see the boy blush under the scrutiny, the space between them snapping briefly with sharp anticipation. He looked supremely relieved when a waitress appeared at his side to set down a soup-bowl sized mug practically buried beneath a mountain of whipped cream and caramel drizzle, turning in his seat to reliever her of the burden and gift her with a shiny grin of thanks, allowing Peter to subtly scent the air. It was difficult, fighting his way through the olfactory cacophony of dozens of patrons, coffee and pastry and the homemade lemon cleanser Talinda used, but eventually he found it, so thick with almond and spice that it was almost lost inside the shop. Only the hot-copper pulse of blood beneath it, the deep, earthy musk of young male marked it as Stiles.'

"So Mr. Hale…"

"Peter, please," he replied smoothly, refocusing now that Stiles had turned back to the table, taken a sip of his drink and giving an adorable sort of full-bodied wiggle of pleasure.

"Peter then," he replied, tapping long, slender fingers against the rim of his mug, raising a thumb to suck off a bit of whipped cream. Hardly subtle, but entirely wasted on Peter. "Tell me. What do you want?"

Straight to business - he liked that too.

But what he wanted, what he was hoping for, would require a little more finesse, a little bit more… intimacy.

"Right now, all I want is to have some coffee with a handsome young man," he answered, but he punctuated the statement by placing the manila envelope on the table top, halfway between them so that it was within easy reach. Stiles eyes stuck on it, a frown creasing his forehead, but Peter didn't let it concern him. "And then perhaps if you're amenable, we could get dinner. There's a nice sushi bar just down the block. I'd like to get to know you Stiles," he continued, watching the other man for a reaction.

Stiles' expression had smoothed a bit but he still looked wary, an odd reaction for someone already involved in the escort business. Once again Peter wondered exactly how inexperienced he was, what he expected from this arrangement.

In the end it didn't matter.

Peter would bet good money it wasn't what he'd actually get.

"What do you say Stiles?" he asked, raising his drink casually but too intent on his response to actually take a drink. "Have dinner with me?"

A heartbeat of silence passed and then he nodded, resolute.

"Why not?"


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't exactly the enthusiastic agreement he'd found himself hoping for.

The kid seemed a little skittish, a little uncertain, and there was a resigned set to his shoulders that made Peter frown. He didn't go so far as to flinch when Peter touched a hand lightly to the small of his back, guiding him through the doorway of Quick Brew, but he suspected it was only strict control that allowed him to manage it, not trust or being comfortable with the situation.

They'd finished their coffee without much fuss, making quiet, unimportant small talk about nothing much at all. Stiles talked a bit about his studies, his plans for a dissertation that examined the criminological parallels found within fairytales and folklore, which Peter had found particularly intriguing. It was a strange combination, even more so given their current situation. For someone engaging in the employment side of an escort service, even one as decently reputable as _Urbane_ , the young man seemed to have a strange fascination with the law.

As they walked he seemed to loosen up a bit, the space and the light breeze of the open streets and sidewalks giving him enough room to move, to breathe even with Peter walking close at his side. He kept his hands in the pockets of his jeans but let his elbow brush against Stiles' when they turned the corners, slipped in close to avoid a pedestrian with a dog that apparently had no sense of self-preservation. Any other time Peter would've just bared his teeth at the stupid thing until it got the hell away from his leather shoes, but it gave him a logical reason and a good excuse to tuck himself in close to the young man's side, get a breath of his scent.

"Don't like dogs?" he asked, just a bit of smart-ass hidden in his tone, and Peter grinned widely, holding back his fangs.

"Wrong way round," he smirked and Stiles huffed a laugh. "They don't like me."

"Right," he replied with a small smile, shaking his head like there was a joke in there that Peter had missed, but then they were crossing the street and Peter was holding the door open, watching him duck beneath his outstretched arm and heading for a table near the windows.

It was a little better after that, though he wasn't sure why. Stiles ordered two spicy California rolls and a pale ale, which Peter mocked him for and which he accepted with an easy laugh and good grace. Peter opted for a tiger roll and wasabi-pork wontons, and chilled sake because it was actually of decent quality. They talked about all kinds of unimportant things while they ate – Peter's work, Stiles' classes, about the city and even the weather. There was a mild crackle of electricity around the boy that Peter quite liked, intrigue in the twist of his long, elegant fingers when he spoke and the way the tips of his ears pinked when Peter offered him a bite of his appetizer. He accepted the spicy tidbit with a stammer and a blush, a bit of gracelessness, but all in all it pleased his larger instincts that he'd consented to taking the food from Peter's hand, even if his attempts to look alluring as he wrapped his tongue around the ceramic chopsticks was rather comical.

He managed not to laugh, but only just.

Stiles was just trying to be good, to do what he thought would please, and that was the important part.

If he was misguided in his attempts, there was no one to blame at this point but Peter himself.

For his part, even though Stiles appeared a little more relaxed than he had in the coffee shop, even though he talked a little more freely, it was clear that he was still anxious and practically gagging to get the show on the road, though Peter suspected it was more to do with getting the thing done and over with than to enjoy or experience it. Not that he blamed him – he could only imagine what kinds of experiences he'd had so far after signing himself over to the likes of Jonathan Smith. But he was far too invested in watching Stiles' natural reactions to interfere, so instead of reassuring him, instead of explaining, he talked about ice hockey and the merits of having a car in the inner city while the young man thumbed idly at the corner of the envelope on the table.

"I'd rather you took it home," he said finally, when Stiles had missed a second question and his eyes were a little further away than Peter was comfortable with.

"What?" he asked, jumping in his seat and then immediately going wide-eyed. "No, I… shit. Sorry. I wasn't paying attention was I?"

"No harm done," Peter shrugged. "I like the sound of my own voice well enough that I don't necessarily need someone else to listen."

"You're a lawyer," he huffed, a sound halfway between a laugh and frustration as he rolled his eyes. "You may not _need_ it, but I'll put good money on the fact that you _like_ being the center of attention."

Peter grinned.

"What are you suggesting Mr. Stilinski?" he purred, just because he could.

"I'm not sure," Stiles replied, and the answer rang with honesty. "Just that I guess it's time we got out of here."

Peter hummed contemplatively, looked him up and down and noted that the spark of anxiety was back in his scent, smoky and dark.

"I suppose it is," he said finally, standing and pulling out his wallet to drop a few bills onto the table. "I'd like to walk you to your train, if you don't mind."

"Wait, what? Train?"

This time it was Peter who rolled his eyes, waited just a little impatiently for Stiles to finish his stumble, snatch the envelope off the table and follow him back outside onto the sidewalk.

"Yes, your train," he repeated. "As I said, I'd rather you take that contract home, read it through before we discuss anything further. I'm looking for something long-term, and I think you'll find that my requirements are less… common than you might otherwise expect."

"What, you into some weird fifty shades thing?"

Peter scoffed.

"Not hardly," he sniffed. "And quite frankly I'm disappointed that you've read that drivel."

"In my defense I read it for a research paper," Stiles countered, raising his hands in placation as a smirk tickled at the corner of his mouth. "I was writing about how badly it misrepresented both the BDSM culture and mental health, disregarding safe, sane, and consensual practices as well as the effects of childhood trauma and PTSD."

"Really?"

Peter cocked an eyebrow, begrudgingly admitted to himself that he was impressed.

"You're one of the few your age who don't hold it up as a miracle of erotica."

"It was crap," Stiles snorted. "But I try to be different, if I can't be special."

Peter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looked him up and down.

"So far I haven't been disappointed," he murmured.

Beside him Stiles blushed, tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and pressed his lips together, the envelope sandwiched between his elbow and his ribs. Peter frowned, surprised that he hadn't gotten a snarky comeback in return, but perhaps he hadn't gotten as good a read on the other man as he'd thought just yet. Unusual but not impossible - Peter made a business out of reading people after all - but he hadn't been prepared for his own sincerity when he made the comment, so it was certainly a possibility.

Unfortunately he found that he was already interested in Stiles, the short time spent in his presence enough to assure him that the young man was intelligent, witty, and fairly unafraid of him as a potential employer. Peter didn't see him prepared to back down or acquiesce just because Peter was holding the proverbial purse strings, which was good. He liked that, liked a man who was willing to argue, to point out his flaws as few as they were. At the same time Stiles seemed to be doing his best to also ferret out exactly what it was that Peter wanted, proving once again that he was anything but stupid or as naïve as Smith might've suggested. He was trying, appeared to want to make this work, and given the energy that crackled between them, Peter couldn't help but agree.

Still, it had been a long time since he'd had to sell himself as it were, and yet he found himself with the distinct feeling that he was the one being interviewed between the two of them, the one that needed to convince the other, which was interesting if anything else.

"If you'd rather talk about it now," he offered, the only concession he was currently willing to make though he could admit, to himself at least, that he wanted this to work.

"No man, it's cool," Stiles shrugged, reaching up to scrub a hand through his hair. "I mean, kind of ominous and secret-spy, but I get it. It's just not…"

"Not what you were expecting."

"Yeah. That."

Peter tilted his head, the Blue line platform just on the other side of the street and the train clattering along on the tracks overhead.

"I think you'll come to find that I excel in dismantling people's expectations of me Stiles," he said, his voice low and rough with an instinctive rumble that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He was looming a little now, he knew, even though Stiles was practically the same height as he was, his shoulders almost as broad.

"Bet you enjoy it too," he muttered sardonically, kicking at the sidewalk with the scuffed-up toes of his sneakers, looking off toward the heart of the city skyline.

Peter cursed himself silently, confused but mostly unconcerned by Stiles' sudden, hard left into bitterness. It was strong, like black pepper and dark earth in his nose, and he studied Stiles' profile in the cool afternoon sunlight, bridled with irritation more than anything. This had been easier, last time. _Greenburg_ was easier. And maybe that was right, made sense, because Greenburg had been easy all around. He hadn't challenged Peter or what he wanted, just treated him like any other john he might've picked up and gave him whatever he wanted without question or complaint.

Peter was certain that Stiles would be different.

He felt his mouth open like he was about to say something, about to make an attempt at his own stupidity in a bid to temper whatever he'd clearly done wrong but Stiles beat him to it, shrugging off his black mood as quickly as he'd assumed it and turning back to Peter with something almost like indeterminate shyness on his face.

"You can scent me, if you want," he mumbled, his eyes darting between the men and women hustling by, the pigeons and the cars, anything but Peter, who had raised his eyebrows in surprise before taking a step back, just to get a better look at him.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who was good at shattering expectations.

So the boy knew wolves.

"Ever more surprising, Mr. Stilinski," he purred, quiet and silky, deep in his throat. "Greenburg never figured it out."

"Wait, _Greenburg_?"

Peter hummed dismissively, reaching out to flick the edge of the envelope under Stiles' arm. "You should speak with him," he said. "I'm sure he'll provide nothing but a glowing reference."

Stiles spluttered, stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and Peter chuckled, reached out slowly and tucked his fingers beneath the boy's chin to stop the fish impression. For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy the touch, smoothed his thumb along the line of Stiles' jaw, just once before he let go. It wasn't the scent marking he'd been granted permission for but it was enough, for now at least. Any more wouldn't have been appropriate, would've been too much.

And still, it was hard to let go, hard to drop his hand and take a step back, to suck in a lungful of air and keep his eyes from flashing as he watched Stiles' throat contract as he swallowed, his tongue flicker out to wet his lips.

"Talk to him," he repeated, his voice a little rough around the edges as he put his hands in his pockets, safely tucked away where they couldn't wander. "Read the contract. If you think this is something you'd like to pursue, something you'd like to talk about, then we'll talk."

Stiles swallowed again, rocked back onto his heels and shifted the envelope into his hands, traced the edges in short, anxious turns.

"Right," he muttered. "Sure. Talk. That's… that's cool."

There was a pause then, as they both stood still and silent in the middle of a frenetic city, but Stiles seemed to jolt himself out of it after a minute, his spine snapping straight as he offered Peter his hand.

"So hey, thanks. For the coffee I mean, and the sushi. Definitely beats scrounging for ramen, you know?"

Peter nodded, accepted the handshake, dry and firm and confident. He didn't know, not really. He'd experienced his own lean years before the practice had gotten off the ground, but nothing like what Stiles was referring to, those harsh collegiate years suffered by the lower middle class, the ones who had to scrape for meal plans and budget their book money. His own family had been affluent and well-off, and while he'd worked hard he'd never had to tighten his buckle that much. Still, the comment told him more than what it was probably meant to. It put a better reason behind all this, helped him gain a better understanding of why someone like Stiles was doing something like this.

Not that that was his problem, or any of his business, but as a lawyer Peter was a big proponent of recognizing and using motivation.

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Stilinski," he said. "I look forward to hearing from you in the near future."

For a moment Stiles looked like he was going to say something further, but then his mouth twisted to the side and he nodded, once, firmly, and took two shuffling steps backward before turning and jogging toward the curb, intent on beating the light. Peter watched till he got safely to the other side before turning away and heading in the direction of his apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter wouldn't admit to thinking about Stiles repeatedly the following week. It was a little too pathetic, spoke to a little too much early attachment for his tastes. He was resolute in when he did and didn't answer his cell phone, refusing to jump for it when it shrilled in the evenings and leaving it tucked inside a desk drawer while he worked to stop himself from checking the alerts. He counted himself lucky that one of his cases had hit a fairly significant roadblock as soon as he walked in the door Monday morning, because for a little while at least it gave him something to focus on and kept him running back and forth instead of waiting for the damned phone to ring.

Vivian accused him of chasing his tail. Dropping thinly veiled dog jokes as she smirked into her Starbucks was a favorite tactic of hers. If it were anyone but her Peter wouldn't have tolerated the teasing, but he'd known his partner for many, many years, and he was closer to her than almost anyone else in his life. He cared about her, loved that he could relax with her and be entirely himself. She knew exactly who and what and why he was, and so when he made the mistake of telling her he'd gone on a date the weekend before, his only reaction to her snicker-snorted ' _dog-with-a-bone'_ comment was to flash his eyes and snap his fangs playfully in her direction.

The invisible elephant in the room got easier to ignore as the week went on. He was kept busy patching the minor holes that had been drilled into his old case and he'd been handed another that he didn't really want. For as much as it would've suited him and in spite of how much it had always been expected of him, Peter hadn't come out of Harvard with a strong desire to represent the defense. He preferred a prosecutory style - it felt like hunting, like scenting out a weakness and driving in with his teeth bared, but between them he and Vivian had decided that he was still a better fit for the State vs. Alicia Mann. The young woman was accused of killing her mother and it was shaping up to be an extremely high-profile case, with a lot of media attention. Normally Peter wouldn't have gone anywhere near it but Miss Mann apparently had a _thing_ against women of authority, and ten minutes into the interview it had become clear that there was no way she would be able to work with Vivian.

Of course, Peter could've passed the case on all together. As one of two senior partners, he certainly had that right, but Hale and Dorr were well known for taking on similar cases, ones that saw cameras and microphones posted outside of courthouses and their names splashed across the newspapers, ones that saw intense scrutiny and large checks being cashed. All good reasons for the firm to take the case, of course, even if Peter had his own opinions about defense work. Unfortunately, he also had his own opinions about justice and convictions within the courtroom, and those ten minutes with Alicia told Peter that the young girl was telling the truth. Being a werewolf - the sound of a heartbeat, the acrid scent of anxiety and deception… it made it easier in some ways.

In others, it made it harder.

Knowing, knowing for certain whether someone was guilty or not, well…

Peter's instincts demanded certain things of him, demanded certain outcomes.

He could hardly hand an innocent girl off to some half-rate public defense attorney when he knew that she was likely to be found guilty.

So he threw himself into the case, spent long days, more hours than should legally exist in a week starting his prep work and building the base of his defense, reading case files until he'd worked himself up to a headache and Vivian sent him packing. A full week of nights in an empty apartment surrounded by take-out and even more paperwork, and early mornings pounding the treadmill in the gym of his apartment building even though he was strangely exhausted.

In the back of his mind, he was still expecting a phone call.

Perhaps that was why he was unprepared for a knock on the door.

It was Saturday afternoon, one week to the day since he'd met with Stiles, and as yet he hadn't heard anything from the young man or from Jonathan Smith. He'd been warned away from the office on threat of bodily harm by his delightful partner, and in retaliation he'd been placing systematic calls and texts every fifteen minutes requesting files and information, partially because he needed it if he was going to do anything productive over the weekend and partially to piss her off.

When the sharp rap startled him out of his focus, from the mess of paperwork spread across his dining table, lit by the wash of early September sunlight pouring in through the windows, he thought he'd finally gotten her to cave.

He should've known better.

That the knock came to the tune of _Shave and a Haircut_ probably should've tipped him off.

Still, he practically froze when he pulled open his front door distractedly with a bitchy comment on the tip of his tongue, only to find Stiles standing on the other side. The young man looked much the same, pale and wide-eyed as he stood rocked back on his heels with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a pair of burgundy-colored skinny jeans. He was wearing a black button down with silver pinstripes that matched his belt buckle, and his hair been carefully mussed, and Peter was struck by the impression that he'd dressed up this time, that he'd made more of an effort than he had originally.

He wondered who'd helped him with that.

"Mr. Stilinski," he greeted calmly, hiding his surprise. "I wasn't expecting you."

"You said we could talk," Stiles replied, in a tone that was accusatory enough to put a smirk on Peter's face.

"I did."

Slouching against the doorjamb, Peter relaxed his spine and crossed his ankles, ignored Stiles' twitch when he didn't immediately usher him inside.

"What, here?" he yelped, looking left and right along the empty hallway.

Peter shrugged. His was the only apartment on the top floor - he wasn't worried about being overheard, and he found himself enjoying the strange little surge of power he got from leaving the kid stranded on the doorstep.

"Jerk."

It was muttered, almost silent, but given that Stiles was aware of Peter's biological status, he was almost certain he'd been meant to hear it, and he barked a laugh.

"Next time call ahead," he suggested, letting his teeth sharpen in his mouth as he grinned. "What if I was entertaining?"

"You weren't," Stiles scoffed. "And don't even try selling me the what-ifs, Mr. Lawyer-Man." Tossing Peter a glare, he dropped into a crouch, unzipped a battered leather messenger bag that Peter hadn't even noticed and brought out a familiar manila envelope. It was dog-eared and wrinkled, one corner stained suspiciously, but the weight of it was still the same when he slapped it against Peter's chest.

"This?" he demanded, poking him with a finger. "This was crap."

"I have it on good authority that it's not," Peter drawled, lifting the flap and pulling out the thick stack of papers inside, getting a whiff of dark coffee and pizza sauce. Flicking a glance up to gauge Stiles' reaction, he caught the kid giving him a slow once-over and he pushed uncomfortably to his feet, breaking up the long, sleek line of his body and widening his stance. Cinnamon popped in the air, a brief snap of arousal that went as soon as it had appeared, and while he appreciated the fact that the kid had reeled it in, it was still disconcerting.

It always was.

Peter knew what he looked like. He knew how people responded to him, men and women alike. Being a werewolf meant it was damn hard to stay oblivious to anyone's responses, even if they made an effort to hide it. Over the years he'd learned to tune it out, but that didn't mean he was above putting a few errant dicks in their place, or using a woman's desire to flirt against her when it would get him what he wanted.

He knew too exactly what Stiles thought he was here for, what he thought the two of them would be doing together behind closed doors. He couldn't blame the kid for his natural response, couldn't even blame him if he was forcing it, working himself up to it. It was logical, made sense.

It still made his insides go a little cold.

"Oh sure, it's a good contract," Stiles said breezily, waving a hand and pretending that he hadn't just gotten caught, unaware of how Peter had been affected. "Lots of pretty lawyer-speak to say exactly _nothing at all_."

"But you still signed it," Peter bit back, letting the challenge in his tone override the sudden spark of relief that snapped inside him as he paged through the document to the back to find a surprisingly neat signature scrawled in all the appropriate places.

"Please," Stiles scoffed. "That thing's nothing more than a glorified non-disclosure agreement. No sir, never seen that man in my life."

Well… yes. That was rather the point.

"I still don't know what it is you actually want here. I mean, it must be intense if…"

Peter crossed his arms, cocked an eyebrow, his hackles rising slightly.

"If what?" he asked heavily.

Stiles frowned, looked him up and down again, more blatantly this time, and something in his scent made Peter wonder if he'd misjudged that statement, if he wasn't being more defensive than necessary.

"Nothing," he muttered, waving away the hanging sentence. "Just… help me out here man."

"You didn't talk to Greenburg."

"I repeat, non-disclosure," Stiles sniffed, and then suddenly he was flailing hard and sharp with an indignant yip. "Also, really? _That guy_?!"

Peter raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Judging Mr. Stilinski?"

"No!" he pouted, crossing his arms and scrubbing the toe of his shoe against the carpet before quieting. "He couldn't really talk about anything, obviously. But he said you were a good guy. Safe. Nothing too weird."

Now it was Peter's turn to scoff.

"As a lawyer, I'm sure I'm obligated to contest the first of those qualities at the very least."

"Not helping dude," Stiles scowled. "Seriously, you're not gonna let me in?"

"What exactly is it that you came here to find out Stiles?" Peter sighed, his exasperation and all the frustrations of the week rearing up and nipping at him. The past few days had been a logistic nightmare and honestly he'd like nothing more than to curl up on his couch next to a warm body, but that wasn't how this worked. It was something that needed to proceed a certain way if he was to get what he wanted out of it. Stiles' unexpected arrival was close to throwing a wrench in that process, his clean _talcum_ - _spearmint_ - _leather_ scent a temptation far stronger than he ever would have expected. "You already signed, you went after Greenburg and I'm assuming you've spoken with Mr. Smith. For all intents and purposes you've already committed to this."

"I don't _know_ , ok?" he shouted suddenly, scrubbing his hands through his hair and swinging his arms wide. A red flush was creeping up his neck and his eyes had gone bright and wild. "I've been doing this for like, two weeks, all right? Christ, my dad's a _Sheriff_ , you think I…"

Well.

That was certainly more of a reaction than he expected to get, emotionally and informationally both.

A Sheriff's kid, what the ever loving hell?

Stiles wrapped his arms around his ribcage, closed his eyes and blew out a huge breath as he turned a single, full circle before facing him again with a familiar, resigned set to his shoulders.

"Look, I've made my choice, ok? I'm cool with it, I'm down. I need the cash, and selling essays on Craigslist only buys a guy so many textbooks. This is at least a little better than selling weed, right?"

Peter didn't respond, refused to flinch when Stiles flung a hand in his direction.

"I mean, you're a freaking lawyer, this could go _so_ much more badly for you than it could for me," he snarled.

"Oh, so we've moved on to the 'threats' portion of the evening?" he asked, making sure to actually add finger quotes around the word.

"No," the boy scoffed dismissively, the silent _idiot_ ringing loudly in Peter's ears. "I'm just saying. That's… safety for me, ok? Just another layer between me and a complete fuck-up. Makes me think that this might have a shot at actually working, even though you're a werewolf and a _suit_."

Peter felt a chuckle bubble up out of his chest and only just bit it back, amused that the kid was more offended by his being a lawyer than a werewolf.

"I get the timeline. Two or three days a month, for the moon right? Ok fine. I get what that… entails. Mostly."

Peter somehow doubted that.

"But the rest of it, all… _that_!"

He made a vague, scrambling gesture in Peter's general direction.

"I don't get it."

"Do you need to?" Peter asked. "Will it change your mind? You come in for two, three days max for the full moon, non-negotiable. A few more days a month to help facilitate that, scheduled as needed. Double your normal rate through _UE_ for the availability, and for the commitment to long-term retention and the non-disclosure, as outlined in the contract."

The harsh, staccato delivery of his expectations seemed to have thrown the young man a bit - he'd gone pale and wide-eyed, leaning back and away, and he felt a dull urge to correct that, to soothe it.

"I'm sure Greenburg told you that I tend to be liberal with tips," he said. "Compensation for my… proclivities."

"Yeah, but you haven't told me what those _are_ ," Stiles scowled.

And he didn't want to. He'd tried that before, and it hadn't gotten him anything but trouble, slick bastards and little shits who thought they could be clever, out-manipulate him. No, he wasn't interested in doing that again. If he wasn't a complete moron, Stiles would eventually figure out that he wasn't looking for dirty massages or classed-up blowjobs. Eventually.

"I've told you I'm not into any of that fifty shades bullshit," he said slowly, carefully. "And you know what I am. You're smart Stiles - figure it out!"

It was harsh, nasty, and it wasn't an answer, but it put a little color back in the kid's face, a little bit of bite back in him, and that was what Peter had been aiming for.

"So what's it going to be Stiles?" he asked, and he knew he was pushing the issue but at this point he didn't care, he just wanted to sleep. "Yes or no?"

Another frown, a beat of silence in which Peter denied his investment in the answer he was waiting for.

"Yes."

And just like that, with one word, all the tension went out of him, his muscles going loose like his strings had been cut.

"Excellent," he smiled, bright and forced as he shoved himself upright and stepped back into his apartment. "Have a good night Stiles."

"Wait, you're not gonna invite me…"

But the door was already shut.


	6. Chapter 6

The next full moon was more than three weeks away, the first days of September wavering between the balmy, lingering warmth of summer and the cooler, breezy days of fall. Peter was kept busy finishing up his smaller cases, slipping in and out of courtrooms and his company car, living on the coffee Roy kept waiting for him in the cup holders and the leftover, often soggy sandwiches Vivian ordered into the office for meetings. He'd handed a few smaller jobs off to his three associates and was focusing almost solely on Alicia Mann's case, which was how he'd ended up sitting in his glass-walled office, staring at a mess of calendars spread over his desktop and blinking at him from the screen of his computer. He hated scheduling, and not for the first time toyed with the idea of hiring himself a personal assistant to do all the tedious, small-time nonsense he didn't want to do.

But Alicia was currently being held in an adult super-max upstate and there was no way for him to work her case without actually going up there to sit and talk with her. One way it was more than three hours by car, which meant that there were some logistical decisions to make. Having already been introduced to the volatile young woman, he knew there was no possibility of her being able to sit for extended sessions, which meant there was no good way for him to get all of his information in one go, so he needed to decide if he wanted to suck it up and suffer the road trip back and forth or rent a damned hotel for a few nights.

He wasn't really looking forward to either option. Both would eat up a good chunk of his week, possibly more, for the next several months. It would mean time away from the office, from home, from his _territory_ , and that would upset his routine as well as his inner sense of calm and stability. Living as a lone beta without a pack, travel outside his chosen stomping grounds became a tedious and risky affair, especially if it would be taking him through another wolf's territory. The northern part of the state which housed the prison was currently held by an older Alpha, one who stood heavy on tradition and was already starting to have problems with his up-and-coming replacement, one of several sons who didn't share his father's approach to politics. Just one more minefield this case would force him to navigate.

Sketching boxes in pencil across his calendars, he frowned as he plotted a few different travel combinations, trying to determine what manner of address would be least inconvenient to himself.

"For god's sake, just pick a day."

Looking up from his desk with glowing blue eyes, Peter glared. Vivian was standing halfway inside the edge of his office, all curves, dark eyes, and glossy black hair. She was lovely, her skin a deep gold and her face heart-shaped, grinning mouth wide and lush. The beauty of youth still clung to her even in her late thirties but she was a shark, as capable as he was of being cold and manipulative and blood-thirsty, and for a long time he had suspected her of being something more than human. It took a while, a lot of late nights in the law library and a lot of Chinese food, a lot of bitchy complaints and casual, shrugging heart-to-hearts for him to realize she that was only herself, to realize that she was also capable of being deeply understanding and affectionate, even sweet.

That didn't mean they didn't give each other shit as often as was feasibly possible, but it was an important part of her, and important part of _them_.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he muttered. "Someone else to annoy?"

"Hell Peter," she accused, "Only you could be so obnoxious about deciding on a get-to-know-you date with your new rent boy."

Peter arched an eyebrow, looked off down the hallway through the glass.

"Relax," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "They're all gone to lunch, it's just us for now."

Stepping fully inside the door, she pulled her arm from behind her back revealing a to-go bag from The Soup Box. Wiggling it at him with questioning eyes, she grinned and fist pumped when he shuffled up his papers, clearing a spot on the desk.

"I was trying to schedule a trip upstate actually," he corrected as she began laying out containers of French Onion, Corn Chowder, and Pea soup. "To speak with Ms. Mann."

"Does it matter?" she asked, handing him a plastic spoon and a stack of napkins, sitting down across from him. "It's essentially your only case right now – you could go whenever you wanted to."

"Not that simple," he shook his head. "I'll be in someone else's… _jurisdiction_. That will take a little planning."

Her only response was a tilt of her head and a contemplative hum – another thing he liked about her immensely. She understood him without explanation, didn't ask incessant questions or doubt his word, instead accepting the importance of things like this without complaint.

"If you need any help let me know," she offered instead, selecting a breadstick from a paper bag with scrutiny. "I know this isn't your favorite kind of case."

"She's innocent," he shrugged, pulling the Styrofoam cup of French Onion away from her and peeling off the top. "She looks guilty."

For a minute the two sat in silence, eating quietly while the heavy underpinnings of that simple statement hung over them.

"And he's not a rent boy Viv, Jesus," he sniffed, an attempt to break the mood that was all of successful, if her bark of laughter into her bowl was any judge.

She knew that of course. It had been years since the night they'd gotten sloshed off a bottle of wine and wolfsbane whiskey, blabbing the stories of their worst relationships on a dare. They were twenty four and had somehow gotten themselves to the top of a rusty jungle gym at some kid's park three city blocks away from campus, warm with alcohol and safe in the midnight dark. Peter had finally told her straight out that sexual contact made him feel shivery inside and she'd pulled her arm away from his shoulders and turned a guilty face on him so fast that he'd burst out laughing, toppled drunkenly from the metal structure and snapped his wrist on the landing.

They'd come a long way since then, thank god. They were a little classier in their drinking and far more able to afford a higher quality bottle, although every once in a while they still took a late night stroll together. Vivian was as close as Peter came to pack these days, but beyond that she was also his partner. The practice they'd built together was well-known and successful, and there was nothing worth so much in his life that he would risk both it and her.

So she knew. Knew that he needed someone to settle him, to ground him, especially during the full moons, but also the kinds of complications he had and would face if he were to attempt to find that person through more conventional channels. Being a werewolf _and_ asexual meant that the requirements and parameters of a relationship were more strict and defined than a casual bar hook-up could provide, but being a lawyer also came with its own problems. While hiring an escort wasn't technically illegal, it was questionable, especially for someone in their profession. It would be the easiest thing to be accused of eliciting prostitution, or worse, and that kind of a thing would extend far beyond Peter's own person. It had the potential to affect every case he'd ever worked, his partner, the firm, everything.

"Tell me about him," she said, reaching for the high-tech infuser water bottle she carried everywhere. "What's he like?"

Peter shrugged, affected a fair amount of disinterest.

"Smart," he replied, something he was far more intrigued by than he let on. "Witty. College student, early twenties. Seemed a little skittish, but he was interested, in the cash at least."

Vivian frowned, sat back in her chair and Peter sighed, bracing himself for the lecture whose approach he could read on her face.

"I hate that," she confessed quietly, making something inside him twinge. "I hate that it's someone who doesn't care about you."

"I don't need them to care about me," he huffed, rolling his eyes and balling up a napkin, flicking it at her head. "If that's what I wanted I'd have stayed with Talia."

"Still. Did you get along at least?"

"Well enough. We had coffee, went for sushi. He kept up, which was a pleasant surprise."

"I take it he signed the non-disclosure."

"He did." Peter paused a moment, frowned. "I think he had someone else read it though. A friend, maybe. He goes to Columbia but he's not pre-law. He called me on it being bullshit."

Vivian snorted. "It is bullshit," she confirmed, and she would know since she'd helped him write it, back when he'd been nervous and paranoid as hell about his extracurricular activities coming back to bite the firm in the ass. "But air tight."

"He conceded that much." Picking up a pen, Peter twirled it around his fingers before putting it down again. He didn't fidget, and Vivian was too observant for her own good. She'd almost had him pegged as not-quite-human before he finally came out and admitted it to her. "His father's a Sheriff."

Vivian arched an eyebrow, stayed quiet a moment.

"This isn't some kind of sting, is it?"

He snorted.

"If it is it's a damn good one," he replied, sitting back in his chair. "He called me on being a werewolf too. Offered to let me scent him in the middle of the damn sidewalk. He's a sly little bastard, I'll give him that."

"You like him," she accused.

"I suppose. Like I said, he's smart, clearly pays attention. Actually knows how to hold a conversation."

"Pretty?"

Peter sniffed, brushed the comment off but Viv was smiling smugly at him from across the desk. Shuffling the trash together, she pushed it over the side into the bin and got to her feet, brushing down her pantsuit as she stood.

"Take a long weekend," she said firmly, leaning forward to tap at his calendar, indicating the coming Friday, a mere seven days away. "Spend some time with him, figure him out. You're not such a pain in the ass when you've got someone to go home to."

Rumbling, Peter flashed his eyes but picked up a pen all the same, marked down the days.

"Get out of my office," he growled fondly, but she was already sweeping out the door, her laughter lingering in the hallway.

 **XXX**

One week later he still hadn't scheduled a visit with his client but he'd suffered through another phone call with Jonathan Smith, requesting that Stiles meet him at his apartment at one o'clock on Saturday and be prepared to stay until the late evening. He'd also jumped the gun a bit and scheduled in the three days of the full moon, as well as an overnight stay in between. It was a bit presumptuous – there were plenty of reasons and opportunities for either of them to decide that this wouldn't work out after all – but in the end he decided it was better to plan ahead and wound up commandeering what essentially amounted to every weekend Stiles had for the month.

Of course, the CEO had been more than happy to fill the young man's schedule without even a consultation between them. Peter had gotten the impression that Stiles felt the same way about the man as he did, so he doubted that they had had a very extensive conversation about his contract or payment methods. The fact that he shelled out double the going rate for the privilege of demanding certain times and dates meant he didn't have much trouble with pangs of guilt or any other messy emotions – all he had to do was say when and where and then show up.

That was one of the primary benefits he reaped from this sort of thing, and he hadn't a qualm about putting up the extra cash for reliability and consistency. Greenburg had been a bit of a slob and was usually five to ten minutes late anywhere they went, but he always made it eventually, and that was its own sort of safety for Peter. He hoped he would find something similar with Stiles, and told himself that that was the cause of the anticipation, the warm stretch of vague unease sitting low in his belly. He refused to acknowledge that a part of it might just be because he was interested in the kid, that something about him dragged on his senses and made his instincts perk up.

Per Vivian's demands, he had taken Friday off and stayed well away from anything work related, his trouble in contacting the upstate pack enough to make his hackles rise with a thought. Their Alpha's refusal to answer a damned phone call had plagued him all week and he'd been churlish and snappy by the time Thursday evening had rolled around, resulting in an impressive bout of tears from an intern and an actual wrestling match between two of the associates. His partner had once again threatened him with bodily harm and he'd taken the very blatant hint, packing up his laptop and leaving everything else behind. It was quite possibly the lightest he'd traveled all year, and he'd had Roy play some British punk on the drive back to his apartment to mark the occasion.

Peter had been a grunge baby in his teens – did anyone ever _really_ leave that behind?

He'd spent the whole of the next day tidying up the apartment, putting away the few things that had gotten tossed around and wiping down the common surfaces that never managed to survive between bi-weekly maid visits. He also ran a few errands, picking up some groceries and making sure to stop by the bank for petty cash. He'd ended the day with a brutal work-out in the gym, running what essentially added up to a half-marathon and free-lifting until even his muscles shook. There was a sparking sort of heat running beneath his skin that had been bothering him ever since he'd set the date for Stiles to come over, and he wasn't going to take any chances of scaring him off, even if he thought he knew something about werewolves. His instincts were too honed, too sharp, too alert to his presence to take that kind of risk.

As an agreeable side-effect, he managed to sleep long and deeply that night and woke up feeling better than he had since he'd taken on the Alicia Mann case. A shower and shave only furthered that, as did a cup of strong coffee. The anticipation was still there, but it had gone from a boil to a low simmer, something much more manageable and even pleasant to experience. He spent the morning reading the paper, checking his mail, and doing half a dozen other little things he rarely took the time to pause and enjoy, surprisingly undistracted by intrusive thoughts, either of work or of Stiles himself. He even managed to lose himself to the time, curled up with a graphic novel he quickly became engrossed in, until the quiet whir of the elevator in the hallway put him on the alert.

He could have met the kid at the door.

He thought about it, thought about waiting on the other side, pulling it open when he had his fist poised to knock.

Something told him Stiles would be unimpressed.

So instead he just set aside his book, rose silently to his feet and stretched when a rap sounded against the door. He sauntered over slowly, gave no impression of impatience, and opened it as calmly as if he were expecting a pizza delivery instead of an escort.

"Stiles," he greeted, smirking at the way the boy shifted nervously on his doorstep. "Right on time. Please, step inside my parlor."


	7. Chapter 7

The kid snorted, rolled his eyes before shouldering roughly past him into the apartment. The smoky scent of anxiety had burned away a bit, replaced by the spark of amusement and some small measure of disenchantment, which was exactly what Peter had been hoping for. Hard to be so scared when you were laughing, and while a part of him relished the scent of fear, he found he didn't care for it on Stiles, not like this.

"Parlor, really?" he scoffed, slinging his battered bag off his shoulder just inside the door and glancing around.

"It _is_ a classic," Peter pointed out, checking himself before he threw the deadbolt out of habit. No reason to cause the kid to panic, hemming him in that way. "You'd prefer something else?"

"Oh I don't know," he replied sarcastically. "Apartment? Home? Hell you're a lawyer, even 'step into my office' seems more appropriate."

Turning around to face him, he folded his arms across his chest, stretching the fabric of a green and white button-down over his shoulders.

"Den," he said quietly, and something a little dark curled in his tone, something a little bit accusatory. "Lair."

Now it was Peter's turn to roll his eyes.

"Please," he sniffed, stepping past Stiles and leading him out of the hallway, into the bright, airy, open design of the living room, the long dining table off to one side separating it from the kitchen beyond. "This is the twenty first century – we hardly live in caves anymore. Not when we can afford far better."

Behind him Stiles gave a long, appreciative whistle, his eyes roving over the skylights and the massive windows, the sun pouring in over the blonde hardwood.

"Damn," he breathed, shoving his hands into his pockets like he was afraid to touch anything. "Sure beats student housing, I'll give you that."

Peter chuckled.

"I should hope so," he replied, crossing to the peninsula curve of the countertop. "You can put your things anywhere."

He took the advice, toed off his shoes and tucked them against the wall of the entryway where they wouldn't be tripped over, put his bag carefully on one of the dining chairs.

"So, uh," he mumbled, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt, rolled to his elbows. "How's this gonna work?"

"You can start by relaxing," he drawled sarcastically, taking two glasses down from the cabinet and going to the refrigerator door for ice. "You smell like you're about to pass out."

"So I'm nervous, sue me," he snapped, crossing his arms, and not for the first time Peter wondered exactly what it was he knew about wolves, the anxiety threading back into his scent.

"I'd actually like to spend a little time talking about that today, if you don't mind" he said after a distracted moment, pouring out orange juice and returning the carton to the fridge, a little sugar to bring the kid's color back.

"Finally."

The word was half sarcastic scoff, half relieved sigh. Confused, Peter frowned, turned to correct that tangled twist in communication and stopped cold when he saw Stiles fisting his hands in the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head and tossing it onto the dining room table before he could stop him. A cool little shiver rolled down his spine and he took an involuntary step back, unnerved by the sudden, drastic turn, the way Stiles had taken charge of the situation between them so quickly and so forcefully. Something at the back of his mind understood that, understood the kid's need to keep a little control for himself, but the rest of his brain was blaring a big, red mayday, even if for the moment Stiles was staring at anything _but_ him.

"So yeah," he shrugged, clearly trying for nonchalance as his hands went to the button of his jeans, twisting when he fumbled the fly. "Hit me. I mean… god, don't _hit_ me. Unless that _is_ what you want, but that's gonna cost extra, and we need to talk about a safeword and…"

Growling with frustration, giving up on the button shaking fingers couldn't work, he threw up his hands and turned on Peter with a glare.

"Give me _something_ dude," he demanded, posture, tone, everything betrayed by the way he smelled. A little defiant, a little intrigued, even a little aroused, but a whole big lot of nervous. "What?"

"Don't call me dude," Peter muttered, swallowing hard and forcing himself to shake off the jittery feeling he always got when someone hit on him a little too intently, the instinctual need to get himself into a corner where his back would be protected. Keeping his eyes down, he pushed the glass of juice across the counter toward the half-naked young man who stood glaring at him with irritation. "And for now what I _want_ is for you to keep your clothes _on_ , if you please."

"If _I_ …"

Stiles huffed a bitter, disbelieving laugh, a scornful little sound that made Peter's head snap up, made his eyes burn blue and his fangs prickle at his gums with indignation.

"Whatever man," he muttered, shaking his head. "Your money, your time."

And well, that was true wasn't it?

"Actually, hold that thought," he said quickly, causing Stiles to freeze in the act of reaching for his shirt. "I'll be right back."

He told himself it wasn't running.

That it wasn't just an excuse to get out of the room for a minute, to collect himself. Stiles had barely been in the door for fifteen minutes and he already had Peter feeling like he was on a rollercoaster, jerking him around until he was nauseas. He'd never felt this kind of whiplash before, certainly not with Greenburg. Maybe it was because he thought he might actually be able to _like_ Stiles someday, or maybe it was because the kid was so contrary on his own, one minute confident and a little too interested for comfort, the next skittish and wary.

It made his head spin.

Ducking into his bedroom, he grabbed a t-shirt from the post of the headboard, the one he'd slept in the night before. Having Stiles wear it, blending their scents would help him settle, calm the wolf that was pacing inside of him. It would dull the throb of _stranger_ that had pounded against the back of his skull ever since he'd let the young man inside, allowed him into Peter's safe place, his _den_.

Stiles hadn't been wrong when he'd called him on that.

"Here," he said gruffly, tossing the shirt at the back of the kid's head as he came back into the kitchen.

Stiles had finally taken a seat on one of the barstools, had emptied half the glass of orange juice in front of him, and he was either so lost in thought or so entranced by the curls he was drawing in the condensation there that he didn't manage to catch the projectile. Instead he yelped, the sound garbled as the fabric wrapped around the side of his face, and he flailed so violently that Peter's hands reached out automatically to grab him by the elbow, catch him before he went over and steady him on his seat.

"Crap, thanks," he mumbled, his cheeks pinking as he righted his balance and Peter let go. "Sorry."

Peter made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat, rounded the counter and drained his own watered-down glass of OJ in one go. He watched Stiles over the rim as he did, watched as he shook the shirt out and lay it over his lap, traced the letters laminated on the front. The picture of a clumsy, gangly young man who hadn't quite grown out of his rangy, teenaged body and into his big-boy shoulders was beginning to solidify in Peter's mind, but there was still a hell of a lot there that didn't make sense to him just yet.

"So I get that this is a scent marking thing, and I'm cool with that," he said, pulling Peter out of his musings as he turned the shirt the right way up, bunching it to stick his arms inside. "But you didn't like, _sweat_ in this or anything right?"

Peter snorted, a little bit surprised by the sudden levity but appreciative of it none the less.

"What, are you a germophobe?" he asked in a teasing tone.

"No, and the correct term is mysophobic, Mr. Lawyer Man," he sniffed, muffled before his head popped out of the collar of the shirt, his hair messy and sticking out in three different directions.

"You know, for someone attending Columbia," he said, carefully ignoring the fact that Stiles' father was also a Sheriff, "You certainly seem to have something against my degree."

"Nah," he shrugged with a grin, "But don't expect me not to tease you for your word-a-day-calendar vocabulary. Or alternatively your lack thereof."

"Leaving me a lot of leeway aren't you," he chuckled. "That hardly seems fair, Mr. Stilinski."

"Yeah, but I never promised to play fair did I?" he said sweetly. "So. The HellHounds?"

Peter's eyes flicked to the decal emblazoned across Stiles' chest - white, black, and silver on worn, navy cotton.

"I told you I liked hockey," he said by way of explanation, settling a little more comfortably against the edge of the counter. "That I played sometimes."

"Well yeah, but you made it seem like it was an every-odd-weekend, pick-up game kind of thing, not like, _organized_. With names and a mascot and shit. Also, _please_ tell me…"

"I didn't pick the name," Peter reassured him flatly. "I'm not that much of a jackass, despite what my sister likes to think."

"Good, because seriously, that's a little on the nose," he accused. Peter laughed, actually laughed this time and Stiles shook his head. "Peter Hale, werewolf HellHound…" he scoffed. "Let me guess - you're team enforcer."

"It's like you know me," he purred sarcastically, batting his eyelashes with one hand over his heart, and it was Stiles' turn to laugh, and that seemed to totally turn the atmosphere between them, everything warmer and lighter and _easier_ and Peter felt himself relax into it with a _whuff_ of a sigh, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

Smart, witty, caustic, and he knew enough to be comfortable with Peter's more animalistic instincts. He hadn't realized how much calmer that would make him feel, how much more at ease he would be simply because he could let a little bit of his guard down, relax that one small part of himself.

"That was the plan for the afternoon, by the way," he said, rounding the counter to the dining table where the signed contract was stacked neatly next to a small stack of papers. "The whole point of this is to be comfortable with each other by the time the full moon rolls around. I'd like for us to get to know each other a little better in the meantime."

Stiles made a noise like an aborted, haughty sort of sniff, a click at the back of his throat that made Peter think he'd probably read his words as a poorly shaded metaphor. Pity and annoyance warred in his chest for all of a second before he caught Stiles rolling his eyes and then both feelings fled, and he reminded himself once again that he was paying for the privilege of not having to explain himself or justify what he wanted. Grabbing a second bar stool, he dragged it in close to the kid's side, close enough that their shoulders would brush as Peter wrote and he could reach out a hand to grip the nape of his neck if he chose to.

Despite appearing offended by Peter's choice of words, Stiles didn't move away, and actually seemed to settle slightly with the close contact.

"And of course you'd be the type to write up a kink list," he grumbled, eyeing the paperwork and the familiar contract with annoyance. "We can't just play twenty questions."

"Nothing doing," he retorted, pulling open the drawer underneath the lip of the counter and fishing a pen from the detritus floating around in there. "If you learn one thing in my profession it's that paperwork may suck, but it will save your ass one day. This may not be as much fun but it's important if this is going to work out between us."

"But I already went over your stupid contract," he pouted, sticking out his lower lip and turning on Peter with puppy eyes. "All work and no play makes Stiles a dull boy."

Peter snorted. After growing up in a pack full of spoiled werewolf cubs, he hardly felt a twinge, and really, what sort of lawyer would he be if he was so easily persuaded? He was damn well immune to all sorts of thing by now.

"Be a good boy now and we can play later," he said, and then he immediately felt his eye twitch, because that wasn't what he'd intended to say at all. Make no never-mind about the fact that Stiles' normal idea of play was likely a far cry from the same definition of the word in the given context – neither was likely to be even remotely similar to Peter's. If his mind had flashed to rough and tumble games of tag or vicious battles of hide and seek through the city, well he wasn't going to admit to it now.

Waiting until he felt it safe to breathe again, until any spike in Stiles' scent had faded along with his reaction to Peter's words, he took a deep breath through his mouth and flicked across a few pages, uncapped his pen and twirled it.

"I told you I mean for this to be long term," he said, placing his phone down between them and opening up his calendar app, one that also happened to plot the full moons. "Are there any dates or times that you know you can't be available right now?"

"Just exams and like, major holidays," he replied, getting his own phone from his pocket and consulting the screen. "Midterms in late October, and finals the first week of December. I fly back home for Thanksgiving break, and then usually I'm gone through winter break too."

"That shouldn't be a problem," he muttered, mostly to himself as he keyed in a few notes to take the dates Stiles had specified off the calendar. "Winter break though… hmm."

"Well, look, the full moon's not till the 31st. I could go home for Christmas and still fly back in time."

"You shouldn't skip Christmas with your family," he protested mildly, more because it was polite and socially expected for him to do so than because he actually cared.

"Yeah I'm not going to," he said smartly. "No matter how good the money is. But I mean, won't you be with family too? You said you had a sister."

"I do, and several more besides," he nodded. "But I left pack life years ago, and a simple home-for-the-holidays visit is never just that. I tend to keep my distance, do the Skype thing. We were never especially close, even as children."

He could feel Stiles staring at him with something like sadness on his face now, and his scent burst with mellow citrus, stovetop lemon pudding that was just a little unhappy, a little somber.

"That… kinda sucks dude," he said carefully, like he wasn't sure he should, but Peter just shrugged it off.

"It's not as bad as it sounds. We still talk, still do see each other. It's not like either of us are secretly hurt by the distance. It just is what it is. But if you could make it back I'd appreciate the availability."

"Sure. I can always tell my dad I got a hot date for the New Year."

Peter hummed.

"Any medical problems?" he asked, aware that it was jarring and one hell of a non sequiter and ignoring Stiles' snort. "Allergies?"

"Don't you need like, a warrant or a subpoena or something first?" he asked, eyes dancing with amusement. "I mean, that's kinda personal. Do you need my soc number too?"

"No, but given that I'll be cooking soon and I'd rather not have to explain your asphyxiated body to the cops…"

"Ah," Stiles nodded. "Makes sense. Right. Um, no food allergies, but I _am_ allergic to sulfa – it's a compound in a lot of medications. While we're there, I take Adderall for my ADHD, but no other medical problems. No diabetes or anything."

"What about asthma, anything like that."

"Nope. But again, not sure why you need to know."

"Because again, I'd rather not plan something like a walk through Central Park and have you collapsing because your very human body can't handle it."

"Once again, makes sense," he nodded, conceding the point and watching Peter make his notes. "But I'm good. I mean, I don't work out religiously or anything but I played lacrosse and I was on the track team. I still run."

"Good to know. Anything you don't like? Food, activities, situations…"

Stiles chuckled, shook his head and leaned back a little, folding his arms so that his fingers brushed against Peter's bicep where they were pressed together.

"You're weirdly considerate, you know that?" he said, and something about that tightened a knot in Peter's belly. "Just don't feed me any weird, raw, wolfy recipes and we should be good. Anything else, I'm assuming you mean like, work functions?"

"Yes, there may be one or two," Peter nodded, surprised at himself. He'd never taken Greenburg anywhere, instead going happily alone, but something in him wondered what it would be like to take Stiles along, to have someone to speak to that didn't bore him practically into his grave.

"I mean, I can do them," Stiles shrugged, but suddenly he looked uncomfortable again, face closing up as he edged away. "But I'm more the jeans and t-shirts type than tuxes and ties. And I mean, you've seen me. Graceful I am not."

"You're fine," he said easily, brushing off what was clearly a painful concern if the sudden sharpening of citrus in the boy's smell was anything to judge by. "And we can always buy you a suit. As long as you're comfortable of course."

"I mean…"

When he didn't continue Peter looked over and found him blushing.

"It's your call man," he said finally. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

Peter shrugged, sure because of long experience that t would be best to ignore the fact that Stiles was feeling insecure and uncertain right now.

"It's a moot point for the moment anyway," he said, getting to his feet. "I recently picked up a case that's done an excellent job of clearing out my non-existent social calendar."

"Yeah, so what do you _do_ anyways?" Stiles asked, prompting Peter to glance at him with raised eyebrows from where he'd begun to take pans down from the cabinets. "I mean, it doesn't sound like you have much of a pack. Do you know other werewolves in the city?"

"A few," he replied, dragging out a heavy, cast-iron skillet. "None that I particularly care to socialize with."

"So… what? I mean, you want _me_ here for the full moon – how does that work? Shouldn't you be out running around with all your wolfy buddies being getting frisky?"

"I tend to stay indoors most months," he replied, slightly unsettled by the fact that suddenly, saying that out loud, confessing to it felt embarrassing, like it was a weakness instead of a show of strength that he could pull it off.

"This I gathered," Stiles said, "But… I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but… shouldn't you be feral?"

Peter froze, then turned on Stiles slowly with eyes that flared gold.

So it wasn't just wolves that the young man knew.

It was also hunters.

"No," he said slowly, a dangerous growl low in his throat. "But tell me Stiles. Where did you learn a thing like that?"


	8. Chapter 8

In the end it was a fairly convoluted story better suited to bad B-movie fiction than reality, but Stiles' heartbeat never wavered in the telling. Apparently a rogue Alpha had managed to get itself loose on the boy's hometown and had gone on an ill-conceived biting spree which ended in his best friend Scott's having been bitten. Stiles, clever little creature that he was, had apparently recognized the signs before anyone else – see previously cited B-movie fiction – and had managed to keep both himself and his friend alive.

As Peter puttered around the kitchen, far more fascinated than he let on, he continued the tale to reveal that several other teenagers from his school had wound up getting caught in the crossfire, resulting in a pack cobbled together with one Banshee, one True Alpha, three betas, and a lizard-thing that no one was really sure about. And Stiles of course, Stiles, who must be _something_ incredible because how else had he survived that mess and come out stronger on the other side, his mettle having been quite literally fire tested when he and his friends successfully killed the Alpha werewolf with nothing more than their wits and a handful of homemade Molotov cocktails?

It was a remarkable story to say the least, but one told with such intent and emotional fervor that it was impossible not to believe. Stiles spoke of his ragtag little pack with loyalty and devotion worthy of a wolf, and had Peter been in his full form, his true body, his chest would have been puffed, his tail bushy and high with the raging, prideful feelings that swelled inside his chest as he listened. He wondered at how they had managed to come together at all, two people who seemed so suited to each other's company in a world so fast and full, and then he thought that perhaps it didn't matter. Instincts to protect and keep close, to brush bodies and bite at necks and shoulders swept through him hot and hard and he had to bite down on a whine.

He wasn't here to build a pack – hell, he wasn't even an Alpha in the first place. The fact that Stiles seemed a perfect pack mate – strong, resourceful, cunning – it didn't matter.

The fact that he seemed a perfect pack mate for _Peter_ – a little devious, a little unfettered, a little dangerous, with a smart mouth and a sense of humor that was one half sass to boot – well, that was a little more relevant, but it still didn't change anything, no matter how quickly he found himself warming up to the kid.

It did, however, explain a lot, and answer quite a few unasked questions.

Apparently Stiles' hometown had played host not only to a rogue alpha but to a very well known hunter family as well – the Argents.

Peter had heard of them of course, most werewolves had. They were the preeminent hunter faction in the Unites States and had been for many years. While he had originally bristled at having that name spoken in his home, he was pleased to learn that the current matriarch was the young Allison Argent, a friend of Stiles and oddly enough fiancée to the pseudo—pack's alpha. Apparently she had taken it upon herself, with the help of the rest of the teenagers, to bring about a new world order after what had amounted to a small family coup and the death of her grandfather. Where their motto had once been a dark warning to the supernatural world, she was slowly but successfully commandeering family support and resources to better serve her pack and any who reached out to them for help.

He was skeptical naturally, and said so, but Stiles took his cynicism with a grain of salt and good graces. He understood the stigma, had firsthand knowledge of the Argents both before and after, and had helped to instigate the changes slowly creeping their way across the country from the west coast. Apparently even he could concede that Rome wasn't built in a day and anyhow, it didn't matter. It wasn't likely that Peter would ever meet the little family that Stiles called a pack, and even less so that he would meet Peter's.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked curiously, watching Peter slice onions and marinated flank steak for fajitas. He'd been pilfering sticks of red and green pepper from the cutting board as he spoke, heedless of the knife or of Peter's having slapped his hands away, crunching happily like he'd accomplished something more than snitching.

"Several of them actually," he replied, setting the knife aside and reaching for the oiled skillet. "That you and your friends managed to survive all that, without the benefit of an alpha or even an older beta… it's impressive."

Stiles laughed.

"Wow man, that sounded physically painful for you to say. Still, compliment appreciated, even if it was begrudgingly bestowed."

Peter arched an eyebrow at him, listened for a quickened pulse or anything in his scent that would speak to true annoyance, even anger, and was relieved when he found nothing but mild amusement.

"I mean, it was tough," he continued, eyes on Peter's hands as he turned up the flame on the gas stove, stirred things a bit and added a splash of whiskey to the pan, setting it alight. "There were a few times some of us almost didn't make it."

"But _you_ did," Peter pointed out, impressed despite himself just as Stiles had said. "You, the human. In a real pack I suspect you'd have made an excellent beta Stiles."

The young man snorted.

"Real pack," he scoffed. "We were a real pack."

"It wasn't meant as insult," Peter shrugged easily. "Perhaps _traditional_ would have been a better term. You certainly conduct yourselves as a pack, even if you seem to be a rag-tag little group. You're missing the structure, the hierarchy, a lot of the customs that an older pack has, a born pack. Oh, you've found some of it," he allowed, placing a pan of tortillas in the oven to warm and soothing the boy's ruffled feathers as he did so. "Again, impressive given your circumstances. But all of it's a little off, a little twisted. Which is to be expected I suppose."

Straightening up, he gave his skillet another stir, adjusted the heat and dried his hands on a dishtowel, turning round to lean against the counter and look Stiles up and down.

"Where are they now, if you don't mind my asking?" he said, leveling the question as unimportant. So far Stiles had been careful about not revealing the name of his hometown or the extent of his pack territory, nothing more specific than the west coast, which Peter respected. "I can't imagine how your alpha is fairing without you."

Stiles shrugged.

"I'm not that important," he said breezily, and Peter felt a growl roll up out of his chest. He managed to bite back most of it, but Stiles still shot him a questioning look, narrowed his eyes when Peter waved him off.

"But I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he stipulated, apparently put back on his guard by Peter's rumbling, but he could hardly be faulted for that could he? From everything he'd said Stiles served as his pack's Second, would make any alpha an ideal Left Hand. No simpering beta soldier, he was a crafty strategic mind wrapped up in handsome, slightly morally ambiguous paper – Peter's favorite sort of toy.

"My mother was our Alpha for many years," he said easily. It was hardly the secret, tragic tale Stiles seemed to think it was. "She stepped down several years ago to avoid being challenged by my older sister. We were raised knowing Talia would take her place one day, but I think it came sooner than either of them expected it to."

Taking plates down from the cabinet, Peter carried them around the counter to the table, arranged two settings directly across from each other on the end as he debated how much he really wanted to share.

"I always… _chafed_ under pack rule," he continued, deciding that the truth would do no harm as Stiles had already shown what would either prove to be a spine of steel or a complete lack of survival instinct. "I wanted to study law and wasn't going to give up a shot at Harvard just because my family holds territory in Colorado. While in college I found that I was more… content than I'd been living with my mother and sister, so I made the decision to start a practice here in New York."

"Hale and Dorr," Stiles said, and Peter nodded in approval.

It was good to know that the kid had done some homework, hadn't walked into this blind.

"Yes. It wasn't a popular decision but at the time my mother wasn't going to risk my denouncing the pack all together by ordering me home."

"So you're here and they're all out there."

"Not all, no. My niece Cora lives in New York City, and we see each other from time to time. And it's not like I've lost all contact with hearth and home – as I've said, we still talk, Skype, and I do visit on occasion. It's all a balancing act, but we seem to have found a good compromise."

Stiles seemed to consider that a moment, to reassess, but then he was nodding and the look on his face left Peter feeling like he'd passed some sort of test. He wasn't sure he liked that, distracted himself a little by carrying the food to the table – the steak, peppers, and onions, and glass dishes of sour cream and cilantro-lime dressing. He dragged a chair back from the table and gestured Stiles onto it, slid it in behind him and was pleased that he didn't flinch when Peter brushed his fingers casually over the nape of his neck.

"Mine are mostly still back home," he said as Peter took his seat across from him, "Scott and Allison and the betas. Lydia, the Banshee, she's here with me at Columbia, and Jackson the amazing lizard-boy got shipped to England, studying at some sort of prep school and becoming even more of a gigantic tool."

Peter grinned, partly because of the venom in Stiles' tone and partly because he'd waited for Peter to serve him instead of helping himself, holding out his plate and then grabbing some tortillas to start a little assembly line of filling and folding. For a while it was quiet between them but it was a pleasant lull in the conversation, both of them focused on filling their bellies and content to exist in the other's space for the time being. If Peter watched him lick his lips or suck juice from his fingers there was nothing carnal about it, just a warm, pleased feeling of having provided, of having fed. It was a small, quiet, feeling, nothing like it would be on the days of the full moon but it was still there and that was a good sign, hinted that Stiles would be a good candidate to direct his attentions on when those long, hot, confined nights came.

Stiles seemed to take to it well enough. His reactions were a little off, likely due to his unorthodox pack life, but his instincts were good. He ate a little ravenously, tearing in with his teeth and that pleased Peter too, spoke not only to the fact that he was enjoying the meal that had come from Peter's hand but also to experience, to eating like a wolf, diving into the fray and snapping up what you could before it was gulped down by the others jostling for position.

Stupid.

He was projecting, he knew that, thrown off balance by the fact that Stiles was more than just acquainted with the idea of werewolves but was a part of a pack himself, as strange and stitched together as it was. He may as well have come with a label, _No Assembly Required_ , already put together and nearly perfect and it was strange and ridiculous and too convenient, but it was also nice. Just nice. Simple, easy, comfortable, more than Peter had hoped for quite honestly. It made it easy for him to stretch out his legs beneath the table, cage Stiles' knees between his own and press their ankles together, one more act of simple contact and point of physical connection between them as they ate.

Stiles didn't pull away or shy from the touch, but he started talking again. It was a little faster, a little higher than the careful way he'd spoken about his pack, less measured and less cautious. It made Peter think of clients he'd had, the guilty ones who couldn't shut up because they thought that somehow talking would distract from the truth, the reality they faced. It was both a defense mechanism and a natural response from the young man, but one he found he didn't mind all that much.

What he did mind was the fumbling game of footsie Stiles tried to initiate almost immediately after he popped the last bite of fajita into his mouth, almost like it was an obligation he had to meet.

And yes, he probably thought it was, but in the moment Peter preferred distance over explanation, so he shoved his chair back and got to his feet as calmly as he could manage, carrying the dirty dishes over to the sink.

"Do you ever sit still?" he asked mildly, both cover and curiosity. Having heard Stiles' back story a part of him was immensely more comfortable with the idea of just telling Stiles that he was Ace and that sex wasn't a part of what he wanted from him, but a part of him was still too wary, years of careful words and situational manipulation too engrained. He was also man enough to admit that he was enjoying having a bit of the upper hand as well, keeping the kid on his toes. It wasn't torture, just… an experiment, the predator in him evaluating every action and response, reveling in the game of it all.

Never let it be said that Peter Hale was a particularly good man.

"ADHD remember?" Stiles countered, but there was a little heat in his tone that suggested he was covering embarrassment. "That gonna be a problem?"

Peter shrugged. He didn't imagine it would be – unless he got roped into some kind of charity event or opera that he couldn't get out of without a plus one – but it was a remote possibility so he wasn't making any promises. Though the idea of sitting next to Stiles in a theater box for a few hours was almost painful, given the way he couldn't seem to sit still or stem the chatter for any significant amount of time.

Runs suddenly sounded much more appealing, a long, hard _hunt-and-chase_ that would leave both of them panting and exhausted, wear Stiles out so well that he'd be capable of no more than collapsing in Peter's bed in a tangle of limbs and sweet, strong sweat. And god, didn't that sound perfect, sprawling across that smooth chest he'd gotten a nice, long glimpse of, licking salt from his collar bones and rubbing his face into the curve of his shoulder, pressing close and sleeping under the weight of his body.

Peter whined, high and sharp from the back of his throat, and beside him Stiles paused where he'd been helping bag up leftovers. Tilting his head, he touched Peter's forearm casually, there and gone again as soon as he managed to pull the blue back from his eyes and shake his head, brush it off.

That was the hard part, of course. Reconciling his werewolf instincts with the fact that he couldn't stand sexual contact, a touch meant to arouse. It seemed contradictory, and was half the reason he preferred hiring someone to looking for a real relationship. It was hard to explain why he loved lying on top of someone, shirtless, skin to skin, why he bit and licked and mouthed at necks and shoulders. Why he craved physical touch, close, affectionate touch, having fingers carded through his hair or the nape of his neck squeezed, why he liked being cuddled and nuzzled and even kissed sometimes. That, all of that, it was normal, affectionate, caring touch, touch that scented and grounded, said safety, family, pack.

None of it meant sex, and for Peter that was the important part.

Unfortunately that didn't always translate so well, in either direction.

He'd sliced up more than a few werewolves in his day who thought that after-shift cuddles were license to play grab-ass, and then there'd been Davey. In the guy's defense, he'd been young and panicked, but Peter had never imagined that declining a blowjob would result in two weeks of intensive avoidance of any and all touch. When he finally couldn't take it any more he'd snapped and gotten himself called a cocktease and promptly ditched for his trouble. He was willing to take part of the blame for that of course - he'd done a little more bitching than explaining - but Vivian had called him stupid and told him that in the end he was better off.

Easy for her to say, when she didn't find herself locked inside a too-small apartment once a month ready to climb the walls while the moon mocked her, fat and heavy through the windows.

But he'd found a solution hadn't he? Unorthodox and ethically questionable, sure, but it was working for him so far.

"Why don't you go pick out a movie," he said, his voice a little rough. "I'll get the rest of this cleaned up."

"Sounds good," Stiles agreed. "But um, bathroom?"

"Of course," Peter nodded, gesturing down the hallway. "First door on the right."

Stiles nodded and trotted away, the door clicking closed behind him while Peter turned back to the dishes. He didn't know if the kid actually needed the facilities or if he just needed to disappear, to take a minute for himself, but either way he found that he was a little bit grateful. A moment away, a moment to clear his head as Stiles' scent, his _presence_ retreated… he needed it.

With what he was about to do, he needed it.


	9. Chapter 9

Peter waited until Stiles had emerged from the hallway before letting himself breathe again. He hadn't counted the minutes but it felt like hours, or at least far too long. The kid was quiet, unobtrusive, but he didn't cower or sneak, and something about that pleased him, set him more solidly at ease in his own skin. Grabbing two bottles of water out of the refrigerator he headed for the living room where he found Stiles standing in front of the shelves built into the wall on either side of the flat screen.

"You've got some excellent tastes in entertainment, Mr. Hale," he said without turning. "Firefly, the original Star Wars, _Buffy_ …"

"A poor representation of werewolves aside, Joss Whedon tends to be a safe bet," Peter replied, flopping down into the corner of the couch and spreading out a little. "The Avengers is on the left."

"Awesome!" Stiles grinned, grabbing the plastic case from the shelf and popping the disk into the player. "I love Marvel! I can be kind of a comic book geek sometimes, but I get the feeling maybe you're down?"

Peter arched an eyebrow in question as Stiles came back to the couch, flicking the cover of the graphic novel he'd left on the coffee table as he passed.

"Locke and Key?"

Oh.

"I enjoy a good graphic novel in my spare time," he admitted, trying not to tense up as Stiles lowered himself down onto the couch beside him. "Joe Hill is… pleasantly dark."

"Very cool," Stiles grinned, slouching down so that he was leaning heavily against Peter's hip, his arm hooked casually over Peter's thigh. "Very Lovecraft. Ever read The Crow?"

"I've seen the movie," he answered, relaxing back against the couch cushions as he clicked through to the movie menu.

It was… difficult to do - Stiles' hand was safely on the outside of his knee but he was curled close and in a prime position to initiate more than just movie-time cuddles. That was kind of the point – that he would be this close – exactly what Peter had been worrying about standing in the kitchen, because if he was honest with himself this was moving a lot faster than he would like to, a lot faster than was ideal. But life was about choices wasn't it, and if Peter didn't want to spend the next full moon climbing the walls, he needed to get comfortable with someone fast, someone who would keep him tethered to the ground.

Stiles seemed like his best bet.

Melting into a loose pile of limbs in his lap, the young man hummed happily as the opening sequences began to play, and his intent focus on the action helped Peter to relax a little further, to breathe out and turn his own eyes to the movie. By the time they were fifteen minutes into it Stiles wasn't paying him any attention at all and he wasn't paying Stiles any either, at least none of the hyper-vigilant, ready-to-run kind. The kid was hard to ignore _completely_ , what with the way he narrated different bits, explained how scenes could have been done better or why Iron Man was better than Captain America. Peter didn't argue the point - Stiles was too busy arguing with the characters on screen anyway - and besides, he tended to agree given that he identified more with the billionaire genius playboy philanthropist than the naïve, goody-two-shoes Captain.

He wasn't quite so rich, nor quite so smart, but one could aspire couldn't they?

Tony Stark was his kind of man.

Still, he was surprised that Stiles' fairly constant stream of chatter didn't bother him too much. Vivian liked to talk during movies too and he was always bitching at her to knock it off, stooping so low as to toss popcorn and hurl pillows in the hopes of silencing the babble. He thought perhaps it was because Stiles' comments were actually related to what was happening on-screen and were both amusing and insightful, even eliciting a chuckle or two out of Peter. All in all it was a surprisingly pleasant experience, sharing body heat and feeling Stiles breathe against his side, feeling his wolf settle inside his chest as an hour passed – nice, just to curl up close to someone for a while without any expectations.

At least until the movie began to draw to an end.

He wasn't sure what triggered it - certainly nothing about the Avengers' on-going battle suggested to him that Stiles was about to initiate anything - but he practically jumped out of his skin when a confident, teasing hand suddenly began to slide slowly up his thigh. The denim of his jeans was thick and tough but he could feel the heat against his skin like a brand and he shifted awkwardly, attempting to pull his hips away. Stiles must have taken it as a different kind of reaction though because he grinned and made a pleased little sound, levering himself up next to Peter and leaning heavily against his side as he dragged his hand up even higher.

Swallowing down his heart - which had taken the opportunity to relocate to his throat - Peter shifted again, grabbing Stiles' wrist in a firm yet careful grip and twisting away, putting as much space as he could between them by turning into the corner, his back to the arm and one knee up across the cushions.

"Tell me," Stiles purred, bringing his free hand up to curl his fingers around Peter's ankle, and that still wasn't great but it was better. His eyes were huge in his face, dark, pupils blown as they traced down the middle of his chest, and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "Come on Mr. Hale, I don't bite, at least not any worse than you. I think it's time for you to tell me what you want."

Peter bit back a shiver, loosened his grip on Stiles' wrist.

"I think it's time for you to go home."

Pushing up off the couch before he could analyze the crumpled expression of confusion and disappointment on Stiles' face, he clicked the television off and grabbed their empty bottles, carrying them into the kitchen to be chucked into the recycling bin. He could hear Stiles heave a sigh behind him but it sounded more bewildered than frustrated so he supposed he ought to count it as a win. He'd met with escorts before who thought he just liked playing coy and pushed for more than he'd made it clear he wanted, but so far Stiles had backed off easily enough whenever Peter balked.

That meant a lot, said a lot about where this could go.

"Figure you want to hang on to this?"

Turning around, Peter found Stiles dressed in his own button-down again, holding out Peter's hockey shirt in a messy fold.

"I do," he agreed, slipping back into lawyer-mode as he made a grab for his composure.

Cool, collected, controlled – that was him.

"I'll have some things for you to take with you next time," he added, watching Stiles slip on his backpack and head toward the door. "I've place the appointment with _Urbane_ – you'll be staying overnight so feel free to bring something to keep yourself occupied if you like."

"Another get-to-know-you session before the full moon?" he asked, and there was something a little bit like a scoff in his voice, but Peter ignored it in favor of blunt honesty.

"Yes. Hopefully one more weekend will have us well-enough acquainted that we'll both survive it."

That brought him up a little short and he turned to Peter with nervous eyes, muttering something rather unflattering under his breath when Peter smirked and chuckled.

"Asshole," he accused, and this time Peter barked a laugh.

"I _have_ enjoyed your company tonight Stiles," he admitted, his earlier discomfort not forgotten but for the moment shelved. "I look forward to seeing you again."

"Sure," Stiles nodded, stepping past Peter as he pulled the door open. "Hey listen, do you want me to bring anything or like, wear anything special, or…"

"Bring something nice," he said, looking the young man up and down, "Maybe something in red, and a suit jacket. Otherwise casual is fine, whatever you're comfortable in."

"Not exactly what I meant, but ok."

Pausing in the hallway Stiles looked back, fiddled nervously with the strap of his bag and shifted on his feet.

"Hey listen, before I go, could I maybe just… have a kiss?"

Peter froze.

Later when he thought back on it he wasn't sure there was anything he was expecting less in that moment than for Stiles to quietly and sweetly ask him for something so small and simple.

A part of him too was surprised that he wanted to give him what he'd ask for, a soft press of his lips to the boy's cheek; a thank you, a farewell full of newly-formed fondness.

Unfortunately, even as he was stepping forward and reaching out the curl his fingers around Stiles' elbows, he knew from the look on his face that the gesture would mean something different than it was intended to, so he followed his first instinct instead and dipped his head, ducking low to press his face into the curve of Stiles' shoulder and breathe.

He'd offered this once before, when they'd first met, first parted. Peter hadn't given in that day and now he was glad of it, because with the soft, warm skin of Stiles' throat against his mouth and the sweet scent of talcum and peppermint and earth in his nose he thought he might be able to get used to this one. There was something about him, something more than Greenburg, something that suggested he might fit with Peter's rough and jagged edges, and that appealed to him more than he cared to acknowledge.

Pulling back he found himself staring into honey-colored eyes, the kid's chest heaving subtly as his heart pounded in his chest.

That was nice – at least he wasn't the only one dealing with miniature freak-outs.

"Have a good night Stiles," he murmured.

Blinking rapidly, Stiles sucked in a breath, licked his lips and nodded, then turned a left without another word.

Just as well.

He didn't know what else he might've said.

 **XXX**

Two hours later Peter climbed into bed with a full bottle of wine and his laptop, propping himself up against the headboard and adjusting his speakers.

This was a bad idea – it was late and she would laugh at him.

She always laughed at him.

But she knew, _understood_ , and more than anyone else she cared, so he decided to risk waking her up and opened his Skype account, growing his claws and using them to pop the cork on his Cabernet while the obnoxious, electronic tone of a call going through rang out. If she did laugh it was because they were close enough that she felt comfortable teasing him, and any other day that was a comfort.

It wasn't Viv's fault that he was feeling a little raw.

She picked up just as he'd finished pouring, leaned sideways to set the bottle on the nightstand, and as she blinked against the light of her computer screen and dragged a hand through her rumpled hair he tipped the glass up, took a long, bracing sip.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" she croaked, then waited patiently for Peter to finish downing two-thirds of the wine and refill his glass.

"Late?" he guessed, and then immediately flinched when she narrowed her eyes.

"Try _early_ , genius," she yawned, pushing herself upright from a mountain of pillows, worn, white t-shirt slipping off her shoulder where the neck had stretched. They'd seen each other in less but she was careful to pull the covers up over her chest, careful not to give him an eyeful of anything he didn't want to see. "What do you want?"

"Stiles just left," he muttered, taking another slug off the wine. "Well not _just_ , but…"

The words came out more bitterly than he'd meant them too, and he wondered if that was telling, if he was already more decided than he thought.

Christ, he should've grabbed whiskey.

"Are you ok?" she asked, her hand coming up toward the camera like she meant to touch his face. "Peter?"

"No, I'm all right," he answered gruffly, setting the wine glass aside. Should've known that would spook her – he really only drank with dinner or with clients. "It was… it was fine."

"Well that doesn't sound _good_."

"I don't know Viv," he growled, his voice rough as his canines lengthened. "What do you want me to say?"

"Hey, you called _me,_ asshat! Remember?" she snapped right back, and hell, that right there was exactly why he'd done it. Vivian had just a little bit of Alpha in her, or at least high-ranking beta, and she knew how to put Peter in his place when he needed it. He might snap and push and she might tolerate it for a while, but if he ever got a little panicky and tried to bite off more than he could chew she was always there to lay him open and lay him up until he'd gotten his head screwed on right again.

"Sorry. I'm just a little…"

"On edge?" she asked, frowning. "Peter are you sure this is good for you? I mean, I know that other guy was around for a while, but wouldn't it be better if you hung out with Cora, or actually dated…"

"Tried that," he grumbled petulantly, sinking down lower onto the bed and pulling the laptop up onto his chest. "This is… easier."

"Aw, is Peter scared of making friends?" she sign-songed, pouting her lips before she couldn't hold in the giggles anymore.

"You're a terrible person," he said flatly, earning himself another fresh round of laughter.

"So are you," she hiccupped, bringing herself back under control. "That's your problem."

"That's not even half my problem," he huffed, rolling his eyes and looking away.

"What? Didn't Stiles meet your perfectionist standards?"

"He was fine," Peter reiterated with a groan, tipping his head back and slinging his forearm across his eyes, subtly baring his throat to her. "He's smart and quick and he likes Marvel comics, and he wore my shirt when I asked him to…"

"Wait, he… oh my god," Vivian snorted, "It's the one you're wearing now isn't it? Peter Hale you are such a sap!"

Huffing, Peter crossed his arms over his chest, obscuring the faded Hellhounds decal as he waited out a new wave of hysterics.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked, waiting for Vivian to wipe away the smudges of mascara she clearly hadn't taken off before bed.

"Sorry," she grinned, unrepentant. "But you're kind of a dork sometimes Peter-wolf. Anyway, it seems like this kid is pretty ok, huh?"

"Yeah," Peter agreed reluctantly, "He seems… satisfactory enough. He doesn't flinch you know? He was actually a beta in a pack out west – he's used to all the…"

"The weird wolfy shit?"

Peter rolled his eyes.

"As eloquently stated as ever," he retorted. "But yes, _that_. He gets it, mostly, the touch thing…"

"Mostly?"

"He tried to give me a handjob," Peter mumbled, his cheeks heating.

"Wait, he _what_?" Vivian yelped, so loudly that Peter jumped and had to lurch after the computer to keep it from hitting the floor. "Where is that little shit? I'm gonna slap him with so many lawsuits…"

"Jesus, down killer!" Peter commanded, "I haven't told him yet."

"…That kid's gonna think he… wait, you haven't told him? What the hell are you waiting for?"

"You know what I'm waiting for," he bit out sharply, oddly chastened by Viv's concerned, subdued face. "I've been through this shit before – I'm not just going to throw it all out there in front of the kid."

"Peter…"

"No, don't do that!" he rumbled, glaring at her uncomfortably when she sniffed and swallowed thickly, blinking back a different kind of tears. "At least… not till we're in the same room. It's easier to make you _stop_ if I can pet your hair and pour alcohol down your throat."

"It's just I know you think you need to prove something, you know?" she gulped, forcing down her emotions ruthlessly. Christ it really must be late if he'd caught her so off guard that she was getting misty-eyed. "That you need to make sure everybody knows you're top dog before you show them any weaknesses. But…"

"It's not that big a deal Viv," he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and shrugging off her concern. "I'm a grown man. And didn't I grow up big and strong and successful? Huh? Rich, handsome…"

"Humble too," Viv snorted, scrubbing at her cheeks and huffing. "I'm just worried."

"Don't be," he commanded quietly. "I know how to hide a body if I have to, and even if I didn't, I've got the best defense lawyer in New York on retainer, don't I?"

"Shut up," she muttered, but she was laughing again just a little bit and that made it better.

"Go back to sleep Viv," he said, and she nodded, reaching up for the lid of her laptop, but at the last moment she paused, stared at him intently.

"I love you Peter-wolf," she murmured. "You know that, right?"

"I know," he whispered. "Sweet dreams Viv."


	10. Chapter 10

It was nearly two weeks before he thought about Stiles again, and not because the kid was easily forgettable.

No, Peter actually put forth the effort not to think about him, after that first morning waking up and coming out into the living room and seeing all the marks the young man had left on the place already – the t-shirt he'd woken up in, the double dishes in the sink, the DVD case on the coffee table, and above all that the scent of him that had permeated the damned place like the kid actually lived there.

So yes, it took effort, active engagement to push the thoughts away.

He made a good job of it, even if he did say so himself. It was fairly easy, what with the way he was already entangled in the Alicia Mann case, all his attempts at browbeating fucking Deucalion into granting him access to upper New York thus far a bust. Wasn't so much Deuc as it was his cheating bitch of a wife Kali, but he was currently planning a guy's night that he hoped would separate the two long enough to weasel permission out of him. Get the man away from the ball-buster, set him up with some beer, some wings, and a baseball game and he would be putty in Peter's hands.

He was actually kind of looking forward to it – Deuc wasn't terrible when he was away from the homestead, and Peter didn't exactly have a lot of friends.

True, he liked it that way, but getting out every once in a while was conducive to keeping himself sane.

Keeping him pleasant too, if you asked Vivian.

"Get out," she hissed, her lacquered nails blood-red and clicking dangerously against the conference table. "Peter I swear to god, if you make one more associate cry today..."

"Please," he muttered, shuffling his work into a pile to be brought home. "Little bastard needs to grow a pair."

"Why, so you can bust them to pieces like you did to Rebecca's earlier?"

Sighing irritably, Peter turned away, ducked his head and showed her the side of his throat. It was only half subconscious – he and Viv had been together long enough that she knew what the gesture meant, that he offered it up intentionally. It was placating, apologizing where he'd never admit out loud that he was wrong, but today it only served to bank her fury-fire, not extinguish it entirely.

"Go home Peter," she insisted, even as he finished packing up and snapped his briefcase closed. "Jesus, your PMS is worse than mine."

"Hah hah," he said flatly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. It was a bad joke – Pre Moon Syndrome – but he knew it for what it was; understanding, maybe even a little bit of forgiveness.

"Seriously Peter, are you ok?" she asked as he headed for the door. Her head was cocked and there as a little crease between her eyebrows, which gave away her concern as sincere. "Your bite's been a little worse than your bark lately."

"Just... anxious," he said, surprising himself with the truth of it. "It's been a while since..."

Viv frowned as he trailed off, looked at him sympathetically. She knew about the standing arrangement he'd had with Greenburg, knew how long it had been since he'd had to... make new friends. How difficult it was for him, especially with the moon growing fuller and fatter every night...

Getting to her feet, she rounded the conference table and strode up to him, slipped an arm around his waist and grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him in close, held him in a loose embrace. Tucking his face into the curve of her neck Peter breathed deep, pulled the scent of her down into his lungs. She smelled like summer, all sun-kissed strawberries and banana-scented tanning lotion, ocean salt and paperback novels. It was familiar, comforting, a little like home, and the way she gripped his hair just a little too tight was good too, good enough that all the tension went out of him and he sagged against her, just for a minute.

It wasn't weakness.

He'd never thought of it that way, never thought of her that way.

She was safety, she was pack, and his wolf recognized her as such.

She was brave enough, bold enough, confident enough to snap and snarl and keep him in check when he needed it, just like she was doing now, and there was comfort in the normality of it. He'd never needed much by way of... socialization – which was the only reason he got away with up and leaving his sister's pack the way he had – but he was no wildling, no feral omega. His relationship with Vivian, his contact with his niece Cora was enough.

Greenburg had helped with that too, the consistency of their meetings, the stability of his moon nights.

The anticipation of the upset he'd have to face in the coming days had his teeth on edge, fangs prickling at his gums, senses sharpening, distracting him with sights and sounds and smells all brighter and sharper and more insistent than they should be. This moment tucked inside Viv's arms was a moment out of time, a stolen pause that couldn't last forever.

"Alright alright you big sap," she scolded playfully, pushing him away. "Get out of here before somebody sees us and I tell them what a big marshmallow you are!"

Rumbling low in his chest, Peter flashed his eyes, making her chuckle as he straightened up again.

"Nobody would believe you," he purred, all silky threats and sharp teeth. "They'll think we're having an affair."

This time she laughed, full and loud as she threw back her hair, eyes sparkling.

"I love you Peter-wolf, you know that, but we'd kill each other within a week. Besides..."

Turning away, she went back to the table, began gathering her things as she threw him a wink over her shoulder.

"You couldn't handle all this."

Huffing a laugh of his own, Peter offered her a smile, all tender affection.

"What man could sweetheart?"

XXX

One week.

He had one week to go until the full moon, but already he felt like he wanted to jump out of his own body.

Maybe he should call this off, go up to the State Park with Cora for a run instead. It had been a while since he'd done that, and the itch beneath his skin where his pelt threatened made the plan feel like the safer option. The idea rankled though, prickled at his pride, felt like he was running, and that was unacceptable.

So he would stay, spend the weekend with Stiles and find a way to settle.

Still, even with all his steel resolve, the decision made, he startled when a knock sounded on the front door.

It was pathetic, embarrassing, and he nearly looked around the empty apartment to make sure no one had seen his exaggerated jump.

Idiot.

Settle down.

Rolling out his shoulders as he headed for the door, he took a moment to slip into his brasher, cockier persona, the one he wore in the courtroom when he knew he was the smartest one there, when he knew he was guaranteed a win.

It was armor, protection, made him feel calmer and more in control, and by the time he opened the door to Stiles he'd gotten a solid grip on it, meeting the young man with a cool smirk and eyes rimmed in electric blue.

And well hello Red Riding Hood.

Stiles stood on the threshold in a jacket of deep red, the color of freshly spilled blood. Worn closed over black slacks and a button-down, all tapered legs and broad shoulders, sleek, narrow lapels, the fabric richer and more finely cut than anything Peter expected a college student to own, it cast a reflection in the young man's dark eyes, a gleaming sheen of ruby that sent an electric shock rolling across his nerves.

It wasn't lust that hit him, low in the stomach and hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, but it was something.

It made his mouth water, the dichotomy of it; the hesitance, the pale, fragile skin and youthful, innocent face screaming prey, while the edge of courage and brash daring, the lines of strength in the way he stood and the knowing in his eyes whispered threat.

It made Peter want to run, to hunt and chase and pin him down, to wrestle and roll until they were both worn out and collapsed beneath a glowing moon.

"How do I look?" he asked, his voice a dull echo from far away as Peter tamped down on his more animalistic instincts. "Wasn't sure where you wanted to go, and I couldn't find a tie..."

That was all right.

It left the top few buttons of his shirt open, his neck free and accessible, the tender, vulnerable hollow of his throat exposed.

"Good enough to eat Red," he said with a smirk, going for the joke even if his voice was too gruff, his stance too aggressive as he straightened to his full height.

Stiles swallowed, took a step backward further into the hall and out from underneath Peter's looming presence, but the werewolf just advanced on him, followed him back until he bumped against the far wall and had nowhere left to go.

A part of Peter wondered if it wasn't planned, a clever tactic, intentional manipulation.

The rest of him didn't care.

Pressing in close, he ignored the full-body shudder that rolled through the younger man, grit his teeth against the flush of arousal that sparked in the air, warm and spicy and uncomfortable. Tilting his head he tucked his cheek in against Stiles,' his eyes falling shut as he breathed in the scent of the kid from the curve of his neck, spiced with blood and clean soap and spearmint. It was still strange, still unfamiliar to him, but not as much, not as disconcertingly, and it set a bit of him at ease.

Pulling back, he found Stiles leaning back heavily against the wall, his breathing heavy and his eyes fluttering shut, and when he finally opened them Peter was waiting with an unimpressed eyebrow cocked.

"Shut up," he muttered, cheeks flushing, and that was nice, even if the implications of the whole thing threw him off.

He didn't blame the kid. Stiles was young and obviously enjoyed sex - at least enough that he could tolerate making a career out of it – and Peter knew what he looked like, the effect he could have on others. Hell, he used that, worked it to his advantage in court rooms and board rooms alike. He understood it, he just... wasn't comfortable with the follow through.

Stiles didn't try for it though, just stood up and adjusted his jacket and glared at Peter like he'd done it on purpose. Breezing by him with his nose in the air, he stepped into the apartment and went for the dining room, dropping his bookbag and a small grey duffel onto the table.

"Hungry?" Peter asked, collecting his wallet and his keys from the kitchen count regardless.

"Would it matter?" Stiles laughed, a grin brushing away any lingering tension that simmered between them. "You don't seem like the kinda guy to go to dinner without a reservation."

"Oh you do have a lot to learn Mr. Stilinski," he demurred, ruining the effect by rolling his eyes. "I'm not the type of man to go to dinner without an open reservation. Besides, I doubt you'd be disappointed if I were taking you out for hotwings."

"In that suit?" Stiles snorted, looking Peter up and down and eyeing his sleek, navy Hugo Boss.

"I service a diverse clientele," he smirked, "And you'd be amazed what good dry cleaning can do. Besides, I'm a werewolf, not a snob - I may not turn my nose up at a forty dollar steak, but Five Guys has its merits."

"Drunk food," Stiles laughed. "Seriously though, if you're taking me for curly fries I might propose right now. As long as they don't come with like, multiple forks or artisanal anything."

"Maybe next time," he said, rolling his eyes, though the image of a night of drinking till he was loose and silly and content to just cuddle in a puppy pile on his couch, stuffed with pizza or nachos and distracted by bright, noisy cartoons actually sounded all right. "Come on. Your multiple forks await."

XXX

He did well despite his protests.

Peter certainly wasn't embarrassed to have the young man on his arm.

He'd guided Stiles into his favorite high-end French place with a light hand a the small of his back, and he'd walked in with a confidence and charming smile that made him appear perfectly at ease. Peter wasn't sure how much practice his job as an escort afforded him in things like this, but no one would think him out of place. He allowed Peter to pull back his chair for him, deferred to his judgment when choosing a bottle of wine, and ordered for himself in pretty, fluent French that sparked a lively conversation about educational language requirements and the validity of dead languages.

The atmosphere in the little restaurant was warm and intimate, the food excellent and the company even better. Peter was a little surprised and immensely pleased with the way Stiles conducted himself – he ended up making a wonderful dinner companion and Peter found himself enjoying the evening far more than any he'd had in a long time. They stayed late, lingered over coffee and crème brulee with only the one joke about hand feeding and sharing spoons. Peter had just rumbled, flashed his eyes and pulled his dish closer to his chest, making Stiles throw back his head and laugh, which was of course Peter's goal.

He didn't make a fuss when Peter paid – a nice change from Greenburg who quibbled constantly about Peter's money instead of just letting him damn well spend the stuff as he liked. The sun was setting when they stepped back outside, the air cool and clean as they waited for the valet to bring the car around, and it seemed a fitting end to the night but it brought a restlessness back to him that had faded while inside. Peter caught a glimpse of them together in the gleaming paint job as the sleek black Lexus rolled up to the curb and damn if they didn't look well together, but there was a gleam flickering in his eyes that startled him, that made him drop his head and put a hard check on his wolf.

Beside him Stiles paused, raised his eyebrows, but it was easy enough to offer him a smile once he had a strangle-hold grip on his instincts. Holding the door, he handed the young man into the passenger seat and rounded the car, catching the keys and slipping the jacketed valet a hefty tip. Closing them in together in the opulent hush of the vehicle, Peter pulled smoothly away from the restaurant and directed them back toward his apartment.

"Thank you for the lovely evening Mr. Hale," Stiles said some minutes later, his voice smooth and silky and quite nearly manipulative, but his scent clean and honest and sincere. "I hope you'll let me return the favor."

"You already have," Peter said, turning onto the avenue that led to his high-rise and ignoring the innuendo. "You make a delightful dinner companion Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles chuckled, a little disbelieving, a little demure.

"I do try my best," he purred.

"You protest too much," Peter replied with a chuckle of his own, pulling into the parking garage and finding his bank of three slots. "You're intelligent, a good conversationalist..."

He broke off as they both unbuckled, exited the car and met around by the rear bumper.

"It's not a wonder you do so well as an escort."

Stiles paused, tilted his head as he tried to figure out if he'd been insulted or not.

"You adapt well," Peter explained as they headed toward the elevator, his hand light on Stiles' elbow, guiding him but also keeping him close. "You're charismatic. You have a talent for making others listen to you, like you."

"And do you like me Mr. Hale?"

Peter laughed.

"And a mind for business too," he added, swiping his key card to run them up to his penthouse. "Yes I do like you Stiles, as I've said. You're certainly more than I expected you to be."

"I'd take that as a compliment if I didn't know you were seeing Greenburg before me."

"Now now Stiles," he scolded, clicking his tongue. "Judge not. Greenburg may be a silly little rabbit, but he served his purpose. And besides, he had a degree in massage."

"Pfft!" Stiles huffed as they stepped out of the elevator, waiting at Peter's side while he unlocked the apartment. "Like you need a degree for that."

"Think you can do better?" Peter challenged, the words out of his mouth before he could think the better of them.

"I know I can."

Turning, Peter looked him up and down, considered his options.

It was too soon, he knew that.

Could feel in his bones, skimming beneath the surface of his skin.

In an ideal world he would have taken it slower, still a bit uncomfortable with the closeness, the lack of familiarity, but with the moon coming on fast he knew he needed to push himself, to rush the process. He had little choice at this point – for Stiles' safety and his own sanity his wolf needed to be prepared and comfortable with what was to come, to be calm with the boy, able to touch and be touched and breathe and sleep and exist in the same space.

"All right then smart ass," he said, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one sharp, self-defiant movement. "Time to put your money where your mouth is."


	11. Chapter 11

He takes a bit of perverse pleasure in the way Stiles blanches at his words. He shouldn't, it's not fair, but it is what it is. He takes no joy from the idea that the young man has been pressured into sex by other clients, that he might have no other recourse but to be an escort, but he can't deny that it makes him feel a little more comfortable, a little more at ease. It makes him feel like they're on more even footing, even if it's an illusion, and anyway, it's not like the kid's hooking on street corners.

For what it's worth, Urbane is the gold standard for escort services – Stiles is more likely playing eye candy for spoiled debutantes than being coerced into bed by some fat forty-something with self-esteem issues.

At least Peter doesn't have to bow to the first just yet - though sometimes he does curse his werewolf physique.

He can feel Stiles' eyes on him, tracing the lines of his body, the definition of bone and muscle, and it takes a lot of doing to suppress a shudder.

Peter knows what he looks like ok? He knows the vibe he gives off. Firm, fit, attractive, with an air of danger and dominance that have men and women alike falling at his feet. The swooners are easy to deal with – those he can just step over like they're beneath his notice – but the others, the ones who get aggressive and insistent and think that he's just playing coy, being a gentleman or a cocktease, those are the ones that send him into a shower so long and hot he comes out pink and raw.

Idly, morbidly, he wonders which of the two Stiles would be, had they met under different circumstances.

A little of both, he believes – brash, cocky, and confident on the outside but a nervous, shaky, insecure mess when it's time to get down to business.

And doesn't that shit sound familiar.

Scowling, grinding teeth so sharp they prickle his gums, Peter practically stomps down the hallway, a petulant child being sent to his room. Stiles follows more quietly, almost hesitant, and that's a little reassuring too.

God Peter hates this, this wibbling uncertainty, this nervousness he can never seem to shake. He's a werewolf for christ's sake, a hunter, a predator. Besides that he's a damned successful defense lawyer, and powerful, respected individual.

He's sleek and suave and proud of who he is, but there's this one stupid thing he just can't pin down, and he fears it will rub him wrong until the day he dies.

He tells himself that it doesn't matter, that being asexual is just a part of who he is that he accepts and isn't bothered by, but he lives in a sexualized world, and every once in a while that world shifts just a little, sending him into a twisted spiral he has to fight to slow down again.

Stepping into his bedroom, Peter flicks the switch that closes the black-out blinds and brings the lights up to fifty percent, for privacy more than anything. He's feeling unbearably vulnerable and will take any comfort he can get as he tears at his belt buckle, shucks his slacks with one defiant shove. He doesn't even glance in Stiles' direction before climbing onto the bed atop the neatly folded sheets, flat out on his stomach with his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms up above his head curling around the pillow he's buried his face in.

He hates this, and he loves it, and he hates that he loves it and hates that he hates it.

He just wants it to be simple, easy.

Just wishes he didn't need it.

Fucking Greenburg splitting on him like that, throwing everything out of order.

Grumbling deep in his chest, Peter punches the pillow in his arms, a small, petty act of aggression that doesn't make him feel any better. He can practically hear Stiles' swallowing his questions but doesn't offer up an answer, uninterested in easing his curiosity. He has to, he knows that, will be spilling his stupid guts to the kid in a few minutes and he fucking hates it, but he'll do it anyways because the alternative is worse.

Suffering through a moon alone.

Suffering through crass physical touch, the heat and tongue and awkward pawing that he can't stand.

With Greenburg it had been easy – Peter didn't initiate anything and the young man followed his lead, never a word spoken between them.

Stiles wouldn't be so easy to placate, to brush off.

He's too smart, too fucking sensitive, and Peter isn't stupid enough to chase off a good thing when he sees it. An escort that's willing to bend to his hours and who already knows werewolves, knows the behaviors and the instincts and the customs...

That's gold in his hands, and he can't risk Stiles thinking that he's doing something wrong or isn't satisfying Peter and doing something stupid about it, like demanding to get into his pants or, possibly even worse, quitting.

The full moon is only days away.

"You got any massage oil?"

He says it softly but it's firmer, calmer than Peter expected. Blinking, he strains his ears, focuses on his senses instead of his thoughts, and he can tell from the way that Stiles moves, speaks, smells, that he's gone into some kind of professional mode.

Fine by him.

The customer's always right after all.

"Bathroom," he says, his own voice harsher and rougher than he was ready for. "Cabinet on the left, top shelf."

As Stiles toddles off Peter forces himself to relax, tries to ease off the tension in his shoulders. He only half succeeds – even if Stiles does suck at this it will be hard to miss the knots in his muscles. It's an unforgivable tell that would ruin him in the courtroom, and the thought only serves to irritate him further. He can feel his fangs threatening to drop and bites them back, breathes out through his nose hard.

He's home, this is his den, his safe place.

This is just discomfort, not a real threat.

He can handle this.

He's still mentally chastising himself when Stiles comes back, putting the bottle on the nightstand. He's changed into a pair of loose basketball shorts and a t-shirt with the Batman symbol emblazoned across the front, and he's kept his socks on.

That, more than anything, the sight of two stupid black ankle socks on his feet, relaxes Peter more than anything else so far.

Good thing too, because the next thing he does is to put one knee on the bed near Peter's thigh and swing the other over him in one smooth, confident sweep, coming to kneel on either side of his hips. Be's standing into it, not resting back on his heels, so there's not that much physical contact between them, but he still tenses up a little, can't help his natural reaction. It's not just the inherent sexuality of the position, it's being underneath someone, the one at the disadvantage, the submissive of the two. It grates on his base nature, goes against who and what he is, and while sometimes he does crave a strong hand, a grounding grip, Stiles has yet to earn that privelege, to prove himself worthy of it.

While Peter is silently fighting down his panic, Stiles has been warming a pool of oil in his hand, and before he can convince himself that he really shouldn't be doing this, the kid spreads it across his shoulders and up over his biceps, back down the sweep of his spine. His hands are warm and firm, strong and rougher than he'd expected, delightfully clinical, and against his better judgment Peter practically melts against the mattress. Above him Stiles huffs, a pleased, amused little sound, and his hands pause between his shoulder blades.

"Gonna bite me if I start with your neck?"

It's a fair question, actually a pretty good one, but Peter snorts anyway. The sound is forced but Stiles takes it for what it's meant to be and starts in, pressing his thumbs into the base of Peter's neck and smoothing them upwards, fingers curling lightly down toward his throat. It makes his breath catch in his chest for all of a minute before the steady pressure and deft touch starts to sink in. It hurts in the best of ways, Stiles' clever fingers following the lines of his muscles, pressing hard at kinks and knots and working them away. By the time he's finished Peter's upper arms and started work on his back, he's nearly forgotten anything but the contact, the pain and the relief and the simple pleasure of skin on skin touch he craves so badly this close to the full moon.

Peter's wolf hovers close to the surface as Stiles works in silence; alert, watchful, and basking in the simplicity of it where he no longer has the mental capacity to chase his worries in circles. He squirms a little, shifts and rumbles low in his chest as he arcs up into the touch as Stiles runs the heels of his palms up either side of Peter's spine, leans his weight into the motion, but the kid takes it all in stride, kneeling up and settling down again, lower this time as he works at Peter's lower back.

He's pleasantly surprised when, a few minutes later, Stiles moves down to his legs, wraps his fingers around Peter's ankles and starts to work his way up. He's skipped his ass entirely, hasn't gone for the casual grope-n-grind, and for a moment Peter's hopeful, hopeful that he won't try anything at all, take what he's asked for at face value and give him a massage and nothing more.

He's disappointed.

As Stiles works his way up Peter's thighs his fingers begin to dip under the edge of his boxers, creep higher than Peter's comfortable with. He shifts again but the kid must take it as encouragement, assume that he's hard and looking for some friction because he goes back to the small of his back, traces the elastic band before squeezing his hips.

"Let's keep this professional, eh Mr. Stilinski?" he suggests, immensely and irrationally proud that his voice stays smooth and calm, even as his shoulders tense.

Stiles pauses and Peter can practically hear his eyebrow cocking, like the click of the barrel of a revolver, but then he scoffs and goes back to his shoulders, having another go at the muscles he's knotted up again.

"I am a professional," he sniffs, pushing at his trapezius. "And what's with you anyway? I mean, you're hot, you're rich... You could have anyone you crooked your finger at."

"Yes, and?"

"And you're hiring hookers."

Now it's Peter's turn to scoff, although, on the outside, he supposes it's a fair point.

"Thought you were an escort," he mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow.

"Tomatoes, potatoes dude," Stiles snorts. "It's the same thing and we both know it. If you're willing to pay for it you ought'a be willing to own it."

"Oh yes, as a lawyer that sounds like an excellent idea," Peter drawls. "Tell the world I've hired a prostitute."

"It's not like you've fucked me. Technically we haven't even done anything illegal yet. This is probably the cleanest massage I've given in ever. So?"

Peter scowls, feels his hackles rise, suddenly defensive of the bitterness in Stiles' tone, like he owes the kid something in addition to the thousands of dollars he'll be dropping on him in the coming months.

"So what?"

"So, what's with you?"

He's sitting back on his heels now, his weight centered over Peter's knees and his hands gone, missing from Peter's skin as he waits for an answer that's not quick or easy coming.

"Come on man," he continues, "I don't know if you're trying to like, ease me into this or... groom me or what, but it's kinda freaking me out. I mean, I can feel the anxiety when I walk in the door and I don't do waiting well. So can we just, you know, make with the sexy times already?"

For a moment Peter is silent, stunned, surprised once again by the intelligence and the insight of this young man. He's clever, maybe too clever, and it's a bit of a world-altering thing. Licking his lips, he focuses on the single thing he can pick out of the mess cleanly, the one thing he's strangely clear on.

"Is that really what you want?"

It's Stiles' turn to be stunned it seems, because he goes utterly still and silent for all of thirty seconds, the first such moment Peter has seen from him.

"You're nicer than a lot of them," he says eventually, quietly, like he feels guilty about the admission. "Not a dick you know? Even though you kind of are. And yeah, you're hot, so it's not like it would be like... a hardship."

Unseen Peter rolls his eyes.

"How kind of you to say," he replies flatly, and then, because it's as good an opening as he's going to get and because he can't imagine fighting against it anymore... "I've got no interest at all in sleeping with you Stiles. And before you get righteously offended," he continues, flinching away from the sudden harsh spike in the young man's scent, "I don't have an interest in sleeping with anyone else either. You're nothing special sweetheart."

Stiles doesn't move, and Peter braces himself for the inevitable.

"So what, you're like, ace, demi..."

"I identify as asexual, yes."

"So... what does that mean?"

Ok, he wasn't expecting that.

Turning his head, Peter cracks an eye and peers at the young man over his shoulder.

"Oh, don't look at me like that asshole," he sniffs, folding his arms over his chest. "I know what Oxford and Webster think it means. I'm asking what it means to you. Jesus, I don't wanna..."

Peter sees the minute it all clicks with him, feels it when he suddenly tenses up and moves to get off, checking himself and freezing with his arms held comically out to his sides, like he's surrounded by glass and doesn't now how to get out of it without breaking something.

Under his breath, Peter snarls.

"Settle down," he snaps, eyes hot and teeth sharp. "This is why I didn't say anything. I'm a werewolf you idiot. I like contact, need it even, especially on the full moon. 'S long as it's not about sex, not meant to be sexual...

"Right," Stiles mumbles, and Peter can tell he's not convinced, but at least the sour-bitter scent of panic-guilt is dissipating. "Ok so... I can get that. I can... I mean I can figure that out, but... what about the full moon. I mean, obviously this is ok right now, right?"

"Yes."

"So what's different? I mean, what do you... need from me?"

Peter lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Fuck this is a relief, finally beyond the shit part of all this and on to the pragmatic part, the logical part.

"You're at a disadvantage there sweetheart," he laughs, a little mean, a little teasing because he can, because he feels so much fucking better even if there's likely a few more problems to come, a few more issues to resolve. "Never should have told me you know wolves. Not gonna hold back on you. Like to roughhouse, wrestle sometimes... Bite."

Stiles barks a laugh.

"Pup sitting," he says, and it's lashback but Peter doesn't care.

Kid's smart, got some spine, tries to show a little respect.

Didn't panic too badly.

Time would tell how he does with this.

For now he's exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally drained, and he wants nothing more than to roll over and go to sleep.

"Come to bed," he rumbles, closing his eyes and turning onto his side.

Beside him he feels Stiles hesitate, scents his confusion.

"Um... sure. How do you..."

"I don't care."

It's easier this way, to snap and snark and be irritable about it, and he wonders if Stiles knows this game. The kid continues to hesitate, but when Peter doesn't look at him, just snuggles deeper into his pillow, he finally moves and situates himself right side up against the far side of the bed, flat on his back with his hands glued to his sides.

Oh for god's sake.

It's too soon, too fast, still uncomfortable, but he's running out of time and he hates himself for the fear.

Rolling over, he flops nearly half on top of Stiles, blanketing his side and holding him still with one hand wrapped around the curve of his rib cage, fingers sharply tipped. Stiles goes shock-straight and still as Peter tucks his face into the curve of the young man's throat, his pulse hammering against his lips.

"What are you..."

"Shut up."

Breathing in his scent, that increasingly familiar spearmint-leather-talc, Peter sinks into the heat, the sensation of shared space and lets it soothe the needling sensation of his pelt pressing up beneath his skin.

The next thing he knows it's morning and he's waking up wrapped around the kid like some sort of desperate octopus, calm and sated like he hasn't felt in a long time.


End file.
